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DR.  FREDERICK  W.  STONE 

OPTOMETRIST 

I2O  TREMONT  ST.,      -      BOSTON 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


FRUITS  AND  FLOWERS  WERE    SHOWERED    UPON    US  "—  Page  3 


nflertfie, 
(JbutSern 
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9 


-PZ.-3 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 
October,  1907 


Contents 


PAGE 


I.  OUR     AGREEABLE     FELLOW 

PASSENGER        ....         i 
II.  MY    INTERPRETER   AT    MA- 

ZATLAN 39 

III.  I  AM  LECTURED       ...       65 

IV.  I   DRINK   COCOANUT  MILK 

AND     Go     FISHING     FOR 

PEARLS 101 

V.  THE  BARON  is  CRAZY  WITH 

MADNESS 133 

VI.  THE  BARANCA     ....     165 
VII.  THE  INCA  EYE  ...»     199 


Illustrations 


FRUITS  AND  FLOWERS  WERE 

SHOWERED  UPON  us  "          Frontispiece 


"  LOOK,   SENORITA  !  "      Facing  page    48 


f<  THE       BARON       HAS 
FOUND  A  PEARL!  "          "         " 


"  YOU     MUST    TAKE    ME 


Goapter 


OUR  AGREEABLE   FELLOW 
PASSENGER 

N  the  same  spirit  in 
which  a  solicitous 
mamma  or  benevo- 
1  e  n  t  middle-aged 
friend  will  some 
times  draw  forth 
from  the  misty  past 
some  youthful  misdeed,  and  set  the 
faded  picture  up  before  a  girl's  eyes, 
framed  in  fiery  retribution — for  an 
object  lesson  and  a  terrible  example 
—so  will  I,  benevolent,  if  not  middle- 
aged,  put  before  the  eyes  of  my  sis 
ters  a  certain  experience  of  mine.  I 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

expect  my  little  act  of  self-abasement 
for  the  instruction  of  my  sex  to  have 
this  merit:  the  picture  I  will  show 
you  is  not  dim  with  age,  and  not  cut 
and  cramped  to  fit  the  frame  of  a 
special  case.  The  colours  are  hardly 
dry,  and  both  picture  and  tale  are 
quite  unvarnished. 

I  am  a  plain  American  girl  of 
twenty.  I  am  not  so  plain,  as  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  as  one  or  two  others  I 
know — not  being  distinguished  even 
by  unusual  or  commanding  ugliness. 
I  spent  last  winter  in  San  Francisco 
with  relatives,  and  intended  return 
ing  home  as  I  came — overland.  But 
the  invalid  friend  who  was  asked  to 
chaperon  me  back  to  New  York,  was 
advised  by  her  physicians  to  take  the 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

trip  by  sea  'via  Panama,  for  health's 
sake,  and  I  was  easily  induced  to 
change  my  arrangements  and  bear 
her  company. 

It  was  on  a  sunny  April  morning 
that  our  friends  met  us  at  the  wharf 
of  the  Pacific  Mail  Steamship  Com 
pany  to  bid  us  God-speed  on  our 
month's  voyage  from  the  Golden 
Gate  to  the  harbour  of  New  York. 

Fruits  and  flowers,  boxes  of  salted 
almonds  and  Maskey's  best  bonbons, 
as  well  as  books,  from  Prescott's 
"  Conquest  of  Mexico  "  to  the  latest 
novels,  were  showered  upon  us,  with 
the  understanding  that  it  was  to  be  a 
long  and  tedious  voyage,  and  we 
should  need  all  the  comfort  obtain 
able  to  support  existence,  with  the 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

knowledge  that  if  we  survived,  we 
might  be  the  better  for  the  journey. 
The  signal  for  visitors  to  leave  the 
ship  had  been  given,  and  Major  San- 
ford,  turning  to  go,  stood  face  to 
face  with  a  tall,  foreign-looking 
young  man,  who  smiled  with  quick 
recognition,  showing  small  white 
teeth  like  a  woman's. 

"You  raimembair  me,  Major?" 
Major     Sanford     did    "  raimem 
bair,"  and,  turning  to  me,  presented 
"  Baron  de  Bach." 

" — he  knows  all  our  good  friends, 
was  here  four  years  ago  on  his  way 
round  the  world  in  his  steam  yacht — 
glad  to  think  you'll  have  such  good 
company.  Good-bye !  "  And  Major 
Sanford  was  the  last  to  run  down 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

the  gangway.  How  little  he  knew 
what  entertainment  he  was  provid 
ing  in  coupling  my  farewell  to  him 
with  "hail"  to  Baron  de  Bach! 

Slowly  we  moved  away  from  the 
dense  crowd  that  covered  the  wharf. 
In  the  cloud  of  fluttering  handker 
chiefs,  our  friends'  faces  grew  dim 
and  slowly  faded;  the  fair  city  at  our 
Western  portal  looked  like  dream 
land  in  a  haze. 

"  You  air  not  sorry  dthat  you 
go?  "  says  a  voice  over  my  shoulder. 

"No,"  I  say,  without  turning; 
"  I'm  always  glad  of  a  change.  You 
must  have  had  a  good  time  in  that 
yacht  of  yours,  going  where  you 
liked,  and  getting  up  steam  the  mo 
ment  you  had  seen  enough." 


CD 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Yes,"  says  the  new  acquaintance 
meditatively,  coming  forward  to  the 
side  of  the  vessel  where  I  can  see  his 
face,  "Mais  je  suls  tres  fatigue.  I 
am  glad  dthat  I  now  go  home." 

"  You  are  young  to  be  tired."  I 
look  sideways  at  the  boyish  face.  He 
is  German,  I  think  to  myself,  making 
a  mental  note  of  his  complexion, 
strangely  fair  for  a  yatchsman,  the 
eyes — heavily  fringed  blue  eyes — the 
full-lipped,  sensuous  mouth,  shapely 
of  its  kind,  shadowed  by  a  curling 
blond  moustache. 

"  You  are  going  home  round 
Robin  Hood's  barn,  aren't  you?  " 

"Robeen  Hoohd?  Pardon,  vill 
you  tell  me  who  is  he  en  franqais?  " 

"  No,    I'm    not    proud    of    my 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

French,  and  if  mistakes  must  be  made 
I  would  rather  you  made  them.  I 
meant  isn't  this  a  curious  way  to  go 
to  Germany,  if  you  are  tired  of  travel 
and  in  haste  to  get  home?  " 

"I  lif  not  in  Jhermany,  how 
could  you  dthink " 

"  Oh,  I  fancied  the  name  was  Ger 
man,  and " 

"  Yes — yes,  dthe  name,  but " 

"  And  you  look  a  little  German." 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  look  at  me 
more,  I  am  in  nodthing  like  Jher- 
mans." 

I  could  see  the  tall  young  stranger 
was  a  bit  distressed  that  his  Teutonic 
cast  betrayed  him. 

"  My  fadthur  was  Jherman — my 
modthur  is  Castilian,  my  home  is 


jgTT 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

Lima,  I  am  Peruvian,  but  I  am  edu 
cate  in  France.  I  am  cosmopolite. 
And  you — air  Frainch?" 

"  I  wonder  where  Mrs.  Steele  is?  " 
I  say,  and  turn  away  to  find  my  friend 
standing  at  the  stern,  with  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  handsome,  care 
worn  face,  and  her  great  hollow  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fading  outlines  of  the 
San  Franciscan  harbour.  The  Baron 
has  followed,  but  I  turn  my  back  and 
devote  myself  to  diverting  Mrs. 
Steele. 

"  We  must  arrange  our  stateroom 
before  we  are  ill,"  she  says  presently, 
in  a  state  of  hopeful  anticipation,  and 
we  retire  to  No.  49  in  the  Steamship 
San  Miguel,  which  all  who  have 
taken  this  journey  know  to  be  the 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

best  double  room  on  the  "  crack  " 
steamer  of  the  line.  We  put  up 
hangers,  divide  pockets  and  racks, 
and  prepare  for  a  three  weeks'  oc 
cupancy.  Having  finished  our  work, 
we  go  to  the  stern  to  get  a  whiff  of 
the  stiff  breeze  blowing  from  the 
southeast.  The  air  is  sweet  and  sun- 
laden,  the  rhythmic  rise  and  fall  of 
the  little  steamer  seems  a  bit  of 
caressing  pastime  between  ship  and 
sea — "  the  whole  world  is  shining 
and  exultant,"  think  I,  "  and  the  con 
tagion  reaches  me." 

"  Mademoiselle  ees  fery  happy  for 
somedthing,"  says  the  Baron's  deep, 
low  voice. 

"  Yes,  I'm  always  happy,  but  es 
pecially  just  now.  Mrs.  Steele — 


" 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

Baron  de  Bach,  a  friend  of  Major 
Sanford." 

For  half  an  hour  the  young  Peru 
vian  devotes  himself  making  a  good 
impression  on  Mrs.  Steele.  He 
carries  her  chair  about  until  a  place  is 
discovered  sufficiently  sheltered  from 
the  sun  and  yet  not  too  cold;  he  puts 
all  our  wraps  and  rugs  on  and  about 
"  Madame,"  who  watches  him  with 
quiet  amusement  until  I  ask: 

"  And  now,  pray,  what  am  I  to  do 
for  a  rug?  " 

;  You  need  not  a  rug ;  you  vill 
valk  dthe  deck,  vill  you  not?  " 

To  tell  the  truth,  walking  the  deck 
is  much  more  in  my  line  than  being 
swathed  and  pinioned  in  a  chair, 
but 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  will  do  you 
good — bring  me  a  book,  and  then 
you  may  explore  if  you  like." 

So  Madame  is  left  with  her  French 
romance,  and  up  and  down  in  the  sun 
shine  I  walk  with  our  new  acquaint 
ance  at  my  side. 

"You  air  not  Frainch?"  he  asks 
with  a  scrutinising  side  glance  out  of 
his  fine  eyes. 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  am  an 
American,  and  so  are  my  ancestors 
for  three  hundred  years." 

"  Naixt  to  dthe  Frainch,  dthe 
American  ladies  air  most  beautiful, 
charmante  and  clevair,  but  you  haf 
chic,  and  more  dthings ;  you  might  be 
angry  I  vould  say.  Vhen  I  stood  at 
dthe  ship  and  see  you  coming  abord 


ii 


BJ 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

du  San  Miguel  I  vas  so  happy,  for 
I  haf  fear  for  a  dull  voyage." 

"  H'm !  You  fancy  then  I  may 
entertain  you?  " 

"Mademoiselle!" 

Very  reproachful  is  the  droop  of 
the  long  lashes. 

"  It  ess  my  gude  hope  ve  may 
be  friends,  and  if  I  succeed  to 
amuse  you,  I  am  content  a  pre 
sent." 

"  And  what  office  do  you  aspire  to 
in  the  future?  Shall  you  instruct, 
perhaps  ?  " 

"  Dthat  ees  more  your  role,  for  if 
you  pairmeet  me  to  listen  to  your  so 
beautiful  Eenglish,  I  must  learn 
much.  But  you  will  let  me  spik  to 
you  a  leedle  in  Frainch,  mademoi- 


JSL 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

selle?  Dthere  air  zome  dthings  I 
cannot  say  in  Eenglish." 

We  stop  at  the  vessel's  side,  and  in 
a  glance  across  to  Mrs.  Steele  I  see 
her  looking  with  wide-eyed  amuse 
ment  and  a  dash  of  concern  at  my 
companion.  I  turn  in  time  to  catch 
a  queer,  earnest  look  in  the  boyish 
face,  as  he  stands  with  one  hand 
grasping  the  rope  ladder  and  his  head 
bent  down  to  mine. 

u  Anything  clever  or  graceful  that 
occurs  to  you  in  French,  you  may  say 
to  Madame  Steele  if  you  like,  but 
you  must  speak  English  to  me. 
There's  the  gong  for  dinner." 

At  the  table  I  am  placed  at  the 
Captain's  right.  My  friends  had 
given  him  special  charges  about  me, 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

and  in  a  rough,  kind-hearted  way  he 
shows  me  every  attention.  On  my 
right  sits  a  Guatemalan,  Serior  Jose 
Noma,  then  Mrs.  Steele,  and  beside 
her,  Baron  de  Bach.  Opposite  is  an 
army  officer,  Captain  Ball,  and  his 
wife,  and  several  Mexicans.  I  feel 
a  little  unsteady  and  disinclined  to 
eat,  but  the  Baron  sends  me,  by  the 
Chinese  waiter,  a  glass  of  champagne 
frappe — and  my  courage  and  interest 
in  life  return. 

The  Guatemalan  proves  to  be  a 
rich  coffee  planter  exiled  from  home 
for  political  reasons,  and  returning 
now  after  an  absence  of  several 
years  to  make  his  peace  with  the 
government.  Senor  Jose  Noma  is  a 
clever,  entertaining  person,  and  one 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

thing  about  him  I  am  not  likely  to 
forget.  He  ate  more  chili-peppers, 
more  mustard,  more  pickled  chow- 
chow,  more  curry,  and  more  cayenne 
pepper  than  I  would  have  believed 
any  mortal  could  dispose  of  and 
live. 

I  used  to  wonder  whether  his  diet 
had  any  share  in  making  him  such  a 
flaming  firebrand  of  rebellion  that  he 
must  needs  be  sent  North  to  cool  off ! 
I  am  convinced,  at  least,  that  had  he 
not  drunk  a  generous  amount  of  wine 
he  must  inevitably  have  been  scorched 
to  a  cinder.  He  was  always  passing 
me  his  favourite  dainties  and  urging 
upon  me  garlic,  and  some  particu 
larly  awful  and  populous  cheese.  I 
was  especially  impressed  in  this,  my 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


first  intercourse  with  a  Spanish- 
speaking  race,  by  their  invincible 
habit  of  paying  compliments,  and  yet 
their  inability  to  convince  even  an 
unsophisticated  person  like  myself 
that  they  meant  one  word  they  were 
saying. 

The  afternoon  I  devote  to  Mrs. 
Steele  in  our  airy,  pleasant  stateroom. 
She  is  not  exactly  ill,  but  wants  to  lie 
down  and  to  be  read  to.  So  we  begin 
the  "Conquest  of  Mexico."  To 
wards  evening  I  emerge  from  retire 
ment,  and  Baron  de  Bach  drops  from 
somewhere  at  my  side. 

"  Gude-efening,  Mademoiselle. 
You  haf  us  long  deserted." 

I  explain  that  my  friend  is  not 
well. 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

"  But  she  vill  make  you  ill  vhen 
you  stay  inside.  I  vill  tell  her." 

"  In  French  it  may  be  safe,  but 
don't  attempt  it  in  English." 

He  looks  mystified. 

"  Pardon,  Mademoiselle,  you  look 
efer  as  if  you  laugh  at  me,  but  I  am 
not  sure." 

"  No,  it's  only  my  natural  buoy 
ancy  that  gives  me  a  smiling  aspect," 
and  I  turn  the  conversation  to 
Mexico.  "  We  shall  go  ashore  at 
Mazatlan  and  dine  at  a  native  hotel 
and  see  the  people." 

"May  I  accompany  you?"  says 
the  Baron. 

"  Mrs.  Steele  makes  all  the  ar 
rangements;  you  must  see  her  about 
that." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Ah,  but  you  spik  not  Spanish, 
and  you  must  haf  intairpretair. 
Madame  Steele !  "  he  says,  as  my 
friend  appears,  looking  refreshed 
from  her  long  rest,  "  desire  you  not 
an  interpretair  at  Mazatlan,  or  spik 
you  Spanish?  " 

Mrs.  Steele  does  not  "  spik  Span 
ish,"  and  accepts  his  offices.  In  some 
way  the  Peruvian  has  secured  the 
confidence  and  goodwill  of  my  friend 
in  a  very  brief  acquaintance.  He  is 
decidedly  agreeable,  but  his  slight 
knowledge  of  English  puts  him  at 
constant  and  amusing  disadvantage. 

The  next  evening  as  we  stand  at 
the  vessel's  side,  watching  the  mar 
vellous  display  of  phosphorescence 
that  plays  about  the  prow  of  the  San 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

Miguel,  Mrs.  Steele  is  joined  by 
Senor  Noma,  and  the  Baron  urges 
me  to  come  a  little  further  away  from 
the  light — "  ve  can  see  dthe  yelly 
fishes  viel  besser."  I  move  away  un 
suspectingly  out  of  the  shine  of  the 
ship's  lanterns,  and  the  Baron,  fold 
ing  his  arms  on  the  railing  beside  me, 
begins  quite  low  to  recite  a  Spanish 
sonnet,  liquid,  musical,  impassioned. 
I  look  out  over  the  waters  well-named 
Pacific,  and  yield  my  luxurious  sense 
a  moment  to  the  charm  of  the  dusky 
beauty  stretching  away  endless  in  the 
night,  listening  half  in  a  dream  to 
the  lapping  of  the  weirdly  lit  water 
against  the  side  of  the  San  Miguel, 
and  to  the  sweet,  low  music  of  the 
Spanish  tongue.  The  spell  is  broken 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


when  the  Peruvian  begins  in  a  rapid, 
excited  French  a  sentimental  declara 
tion. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow 
you,"  I  interrupt.  "  Are  you  telling 
me  about  jelly  fish  or  the  Peru 
vians?  " 

"Sacre!  .  .  ." 

A  low,  repressed  volley  of  Castil- 
ian  followed  by  a  few  words  in  Ger 
man. 

"  Seit  jenem  Tage  wo  ich  zum 
ersten  Male  in  deinen  schonen  Au- 
gen  geblickt  habe,  habe  ich  dich  gren- 
zenlos  geliebt. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can  understand  noth 
ing  but  English,"  I  say,  turning  to  see 
if  I  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  Mrs. 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

"  Sefiorita !  " 

The  Peruvian  holds  my  finger  tips 
fast  to  the  rail  with  a  hand  that  trem 
bles  a  little. 

"  Senorita,  I  must  gif  you  anod- 
ther  proof  dthat  I  am  not  Jherman, 
and  am  unlike  your — how  you  say— 
practice/  countrymen.  I  haf  know 
you  two  days,  yust  so  long  haf  I  loaf 
you,  and  being  Peruvian,  I  must  die 
if  I  tell  you  not."' 

"  Blanche,  where  are  you?  "  It  is 
Mrs.  Steele's  voice,  and  I  call  out: 

"  Do  come  here,  the  jelly  fish  are 
simply  resplendent  on  this  side." 

The  Peruvian  moves  out  of  range 
of  recognition,  into  the  darkness  be 
yond,  while  Mrs.  Steele  joins  me  on 
the  other  side. 


a 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


"Where  is  Baron  de  Bach?  I 
thought  he  was  with  you." 

"  So  he  was,  but  he's  just  gone  daft 
—  I  mean  aft." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  says  my 
friend;  "have  you  disagreed  about 
something?  " 

1  Yes,"  I  say,  "  weVe  disagreed, 
and  he  has  the  best  of  it,  for  he  can 
argue  his  point  with  four  tongues 
and  I've  only  one." 

Mrs.  Steele  is  curious;  she  slips 
her  arm  through  mine. 

"  Has  he  been  overpolite  to  you. 
my  dear?  " 

"  Mrs.  Steele,"  I  say,  thought 
fully,  "  I'm  a  little  amused  and  still 
more  perplexed  by  this  man.  Will 
you  allow  me  the  American  girl's 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

privilege  of  taking  care  of  herself 
and  promise  not  to  interfere  if  I  tell 
you  how  matters  go?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Mrs.  Steele  quickly, 
"  I  need  no  convincing  that  you  can 
take  care  of  yourself,  but  I  rather 
like  that  big  Peruvian  with  all  his 
worldly  experience  and  boyish  heart. 
I  hope  he  hasn't  been  translating  into 
broken  English  the  eloquence  of  his 
face.  If  you're  wise,  you'll  keep  him 
on  friendly  ground  till  near  the  end 
of  the  voyage  at  least;  he  will  make 
an  agreeable  third  in  our  excursions 
on  shore.  His  knowledge  of  Spanish 
and  Mexican  customs  will  be  useful, 
but  if  you  allow  him  to  make  a  goose 
of  himself,  there's  an  end  to  all 
friendly  intercourse." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

She  pauses  a  moment  and  then 
adds  hopefully: 

"  But  still  we've  known  him  only 
two  days ;  I  merely  warn  you  in  time 
for  future  need." 

"  It's  too  late,"  I  say,  leaning  far 
over  the  railing  to  watch  the  phos 
phorescence  gleam  and  darken. 
"  He  has  just  been  making  furious 
love  in  four  languages.  Let's  go  in, 
dear." 

That  night  I  wake  out  of  some  un 
pleasant  dream  to  hear  Mrs.  Steele 
saying : 

"  You  sleep  like  the  dead;  we  shall 
all  go  to  the  bottom  and  you  will 
never  find  it  out  till  the  fish  begin  to 
nibble." 

I  realise  sleepily  there's  a  great 


H 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

commotion  without;  hurried  feet  fly 
about  the  decks;  loud  orders  are 
shouted  under  our  window,  and  with 
a  mighty  trembling  and  throbbing, 
the  ship's  engine  seems  to  stop  sud 
denly.  Mrs.  Steele  is  scrambling  into 
her  robe  de  chambre,  and  has  her 
head  out  of  the  porthole,  while  I, 
hardly  awake  even  yet,  lean  in  a  be 
wildered  way  over  the  side  of  my 
berth  to  listen. 

"What  has  happened?"  Mrs. 
Steele  calls  out. 

"  Man  overboard,'1  answers  one 
of  the  sailors;  "we're  lowering  a 
boat." 

"  Dthere  ees  no  fear,  Madame, 
says  the  Peruvian's  voice  outside. 

I  am  so  sleepy  I  gladly  take  his 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

word  for  it,  and  am  off  again  to  the 
Land  of  Nod.  Mrs.  Steele's  voice 
comes  to  me  from  afar  off,  with  some 
question  about  a  pistol,  but  the  real 
soon  mixes  with  a  dream,  and  I  know 
no  more. 

The  next  morning  I  hear  that  for 
two  hours  the  whole  ship  was  in  a 
commotion.  A  drunken  passenger  of 
the  intermediate  class  had  tumbled 
overboard,  been  sobered  by  his  bath, 
and  swam  valiantly  till  the  ship's 
engine  could  be  reversed  and  a  boat 
lowered  to  his  rescue.  This  occupied 
so  much  time  that  he  was  sinking 
from  exhaustion  when  finally  the 
sailors  pulled  him  in.  The  pas 
sengers  were  in  a  panic  during  the 
outcry  and  subsequent  stoppage  of 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

the  machinery.  Many  believed  the 
last  hour  was  at  hand,  and  appeared 
on  deck  in  ascension  robes,  and  faces 
by  no  means  expressive  of  joy  at  the 
immediate  prospect  of  Heaven.  It 
was  great  fun  hearing  the  various 
experiences  at  breakfast.  Every  one 
had  some  joke  on  his  neighbour — 
only  the  Peruvian  was  quiet  and 
rather  pale.  As  we  sat  on  deck  in 
the  later  morning  sunshine,  he  said 
to  me  in  German: 

'  You    face    danger    bravely.      I 
heard   Madame  Steele  cry  out  last 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  But  quite  true;  I  only  heard  you 
say  there  was  no  fear,  and  then  I 
turned  over  and  went  on  with  my 
dream." 

"  Ah !  "  he  says,  making  the  Ger 
man  words  rumble  and  bristle  with 
emphasis,  "  I  am  happy  that  assur 
ance  from  me  could  so  calm  and  com 
fort  you." 

"  Yes,"  I  say  hypocritically,  "  the 
effect  was  magical;  but  were  you 
frightened?  " 

"  Yes,  I  admit  it.  Very  much. 
But  not  for  myself,  I  hardly  need 
say " 

"  What  was  that  I  heard  about  a 
pistol?"  I  interrupt,  "or  did  I 
dream  it?"  A  faint  flush  passes 
over  the  Peruvian's  face. 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

"  Did  you  hear?  I  was  looking  to 
see  if  it  was  in  order  when  Madame 
Steele  opened  her  window.  I  was 
waked  very  suddenly,  you  see,  and 
my  neighbour  was  shrieking  that  the 
boiler  had  broken  and  in  a  moment 
we  would  all  be  in  Eternity.  I 
thought  of  you,  Fraulein " 

"  In  English,  please,"  I  say,  "  I 
can't  follow  you  in  German." 

He  stops  an  instant,  eying  me 
doubtfully;  a  moment  longer  he  hesi 
tates,  and  then,  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Steele  is  busily  talking  of  the  terrors 
of  the  night  to  a  group  of  passengers, 
he  continues  in  a  lower  tone: 

"  I  dthought  about  you,  it  is  need 
less  dthat  I  zay.  I  hurry  on  mit  my 
long  ofercoat  and  hold  mine  pistol 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


mine — mine — how     you 


deep      in 
zay?" 
"  Pocket." 

*  Yes,  in  mine  pawket,  and  I  come 
dthree  steps  by  a  time  up  here  to  your 
door." 

"  Heavens !  "  I  say,  "  did  you  want 
to  shoot  me?  " 

"  No,  I  vould  safe  you !  " 
"  What  was  the  pistol  for?  " 
"  You  zee  a  Peruvian  vill  dthink 
qvick  by  a  time  like  zo — he  vill  zay : 
*  I  must  safe  dthe  life  of  Senorita — 
dthere  vill  be  boats,  but  dthere  vill  be 
many  to  crowd  in  and  all  vill  be  lost. 
So  I  vill  take  von  leedle  boat  and  I 
put  dtherein  Madame  Steele  and 
Senorita;  if  any  people  try  to  growd 
in,  I  hold  dthem  back;  if  any  in- 


.ffl 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

seest,  I  shoot  dthem  dead,  and  safe 
Senorita.'  " 

"  Very  humane  of  you. — Sefior 
Noma,"  I  call  out  suddenly,  as  that 
fiery  gentleman  is  passing  by,  "I 
want  to  hear  how  heroic  you  were 
last  night." 

"  Ah,  mees,"  says  the  Guatemalan 
deprecatingly,  as  he  stops  before  us, 
u  I  did  sit  one  meeserable  quarter- 
hour  by  the  rail  with  two  life  pre- 
sairvairs  and  try  to  raimember  one 
Ave  Maria." 

Acting  on  Mrs.  Steele's  wise  sug 
gestion,  I  keep  the  Peruvian  at  bay 
as  much  as  possible;  but  this  is  not 
so  easy  as  it  might  seem,  and  my 
best  safeguard  is  to  stay  with  Mrs. 
Steele  every  moment  and  insist  I  un- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

derstand  only  English.  Baron  de 
Bach  observes  a  day  or  two  after 
this: 

"  Senorita's  knowledge  of  French 
and  Jherman  ees  better  zome  days 
dthan  odthers.  But  it  ees  gude  for 
me  that  I  vill  learn  spik  zo  beautiful 
Eenglish." 

"  Forgif  me,  Senorita,"  he  says, 
beginning  afresh  after  a  pause,  "  but 
what  blue  eyes  you  haf !  " 

1  You  are  colour  blind,  Baron," 
observes  Mrs.  Steele,  with  a  quiet 
smile.  The  Peruvian  starts  slightly. 
Had  he  forgotten  her? 

"  Madame "  he  begans. 

"  Hush!  "  I  say,  with  uplifted  fin 
ger,  "  I  hear  the  bells  of  San  Bias." 

Mrs.  Steele  shades  her  eyes  with 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

one  little  grey-gloved  hand,  and 
looks  intently  towards  the  undulat 
ing  outline  of  the  coast.  The  flood 
of  sunshine  that  bathes  the  world  is 
flung  back  ceaselessly  from  the  shim 
mering  sea,  till  the  poor  eyes  of 
mortals  are  dazed  and  blinded  with 
the  shifting  splendour. 

Beyond,  the  rugged  coast  of 
misty  purple  has  rest  and  charm  for 
the  dazzled  vision.  There  is  a  sym 
pathetic  interest  in  Mrs.  Steele's 
beautiful  face,  and  I  knew  her  fancy, 
like  my  own,  had  restored  the  an 
cient  Jesuit  mission  to  the  far-off 
headland,  and  the  legend  of  conse 
crated  bells — that  still  ring  out  from 
a  tower  long  since  crumbled — is 
fresh  and  vivid  in  her  memory. 


on 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

:t  I  really  believe  I  hear  the  bells, 
don't  you,  Mrs.  Steele?  "  She  puts 
the  grey-gloved  hand  over  her  eyes 
as  if  she  were  tired. 

"  I  could  hear  them,  dear,  if  I 
were  twenty." 

"Vhat  bells  ees  dthat?"  The 
Peruvian  turns  away  his  fine  head  to 
listen.  "  I  hear  nodthing." 

"  You  are  the  only  one  that  hears 
them,  Blanche;  tell  us  what  they 
say." 

"  Even  Longfellow  can't  do  that," 
I  answer,  "  and  his  sense  was  so 
acute  and  fine  he  heard  them  half 
across  the  world." 

coast  line 


sty 


and  repeat 


Our  Agreeable  Fellow  Passenger 

«  What  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  outward  pass 
To  the  harbour  of  Mazatlan? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore — 
Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 
But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 
Are  often  one  and  the  same, 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have   a  strange  wild  melody, 
And  are  something  more  than   a  name." 

"Ah,  vas  I  not  right,  Madame 
Steele?  I  vill  learn  zo  beautiful 
Eenglish  on  dthis  voyage." 


C£qpter 


CHAPTER    II 

MY  INTERPRETER  AT  MAZATLAN 


N  the  fifth  day  out 
from  San  Francisco 
we  make  the  har 
bour  of  Mazatlan, 
on  the  Mexican 
coast.  The  cour- 
tesy  of  the  Captain 
secures  us  a  good  view  from  "  the 
bridge "  as  we  approach  our  first 
port.  A  great  white  rock  juts  up  in 
the  bay  like  a  fragment  of  some 
Titan's  fortress;  a  lighthouse  stares 
out  to  sea  from  a  cliff  at  the  har 
bour's  entrance;  the  tall  cocoa  palms 
wave  their  fern  leaves  in  the  blind- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

ing  sunshine,  and  red-roofed  houses 
huddle  below  the  dome  of  the  Ca 
thedral  rising  white  above  the  town. 

The  harbour  soon  swarms  with 
the  countless  boats  of  the  natives 
coming  with  fruit  and  wares  to  sell 
or  hoping  to  earn  a  few  reales  by 
rowing  the  curious  to  the  wharf. 

Senor  Noma  engages  the  largest 
of  these  boats  and  invites  as  many  as 
it  will  hold  to  go  ashore  with  him. 
He  helps  in  Mrs.  Steele,  Baron  de 
Bach  brings  me,  and  we  are  soon 
followed  by  Captain  Ball  and  his 
wife,  and  Miss  Rogers,  a  pretty  girl 
with  her  photographic  camera  and 
her  mamma,  who  is  an  Episcopal 
clergyman's  wife,  and  so  proud  of 
the  circumstance  that  the  gentlemen 


JOL 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

have  dubbed  her  "  The  Church  of 
England." 

The  Mexican  oarsmen  make  one 
think  of  comic  opera  brigands,  ex 
cept  that  they  look  rather  dirtier 
and  their  speech  is  music  without 
song.  We  land  at  a  rude  wharf  in 
the  low  sea  wall  and  pass  through 
groups  of  dark-skinned  natives  who 
eye  us  with  sleepy  interest.  Through 
narrow  streets  we  troop  one  after 
another  towards  the  heart  of  Mazat 
lan. 

It  is  oppressively  warm,  and  Cap 
tain  Ball  begs  us  all  to  come  into 
a  restaurant  and  get  some  cooling 
drink.  Mrs.  Steele  and  I  have  limes 
and  Apollinaris,  while  Senor  Noma, 
true  to  his  red-hot  appetite,  tosses  off 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

a  glass  of  mezcal,  the  fire-water  of 
the  Mexicans,  the  most  scorching 
beverage  ever  concocted. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  true 
Megsican  dinair,  Mees?  "  says  Sefior 
Noma,  blinking  a  little  as  the  liquid 
fire  pours  down  his  throat.  "  It  ees 
not  bad." 

:t  I  should  fancy  it  might  be  very 
interesting,"  I  say. 

"Well,  then,  if  Madama  Steele 
and  the  ladies  and  zhentlemen  pres 
ent  will  do  me  so  much  honour  I  will 
await  them  at  the  Hotel  Nacional  at 
seven  o'clock.  I  must  now  see  a 
friend.  Adios!" 

While  the  rest  are  taking  leave 
Baron  de  Bach  bows  to  me  with  his 
glass  of  Rhine  wine  held  out  to 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

touch  mine.  With  a  comparatively 
serene  face  he  mutters: 

"  You  talk  to  efery  one  but  me; 
I  vould  like  to  shoot  dhem  all." 

"  It  mightn't  do,"  I  say,  "  even  in 
Mexico." 

He  turns  away  with  a  frown  be 
tween  his  fine,  straight  brows. 

"  Madame,  vill  you  and  Sefiorita 
come  to  drive?  I  know  dthe  place 
and  vill  be  intairpretair?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Mrs.  Steele.  "  I  in 
tend  sending  for  a  carriage;  we  can 
get  over  more  ground  in  that  way, 
and  we  have  so  little  time. 

The  Peruvian  gives  an  order  to 
the  servant  and  shortly  a  vehicle 
stands  at  the 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


dently  been  grand  in  its  day — with 
two  white  horses  that  match  it  in 
age  and  decrepitude.  In  the  best 
of  spirits  we  drive  off.  The  Baron 
talks  Spanish  with  the  driver  and 
answers  all  our  million  inquiries. 

We  learn  that  the  best  houses  are 
built  round  a  hollow  square  called  a 
patio,  and  the  occasional  glimpses 
through  the  opening  of  massive 
doors  into  these  courts  reveal  a  sun 
shiny  garden  of  tropical  fruits  and 
flowers.  Roses  everywhere  fill  the 
afternoon  with  fragrance,  and  the 
strong  aroma  of  ripening  bananas 
and  pines  makes  the  hot  air  heavy. 

"  Ees  it  like  vhat  you  dthought?  " 
asks  the  Peruvian. 

"  Much  better  in  some  respects," 


wm. 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 


I  say,  "  but  the  houses  look  dread 
fully  dreary  outside;  they  are  more 
like  prisons  than  homes,  with  their 
great  blank  walls  and  here  and 
there  an  arched  and  grated  win 
dow." 

"  And  there's  not  a  pane  of  glass 
in  the  town,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  u  lat 
tices  inside  and  wooden  shutters 
without." 

"  Yes,  and  I've  noticed  ever  so 
many  pairs  of  bright  eyes  peer 
ing  through  those  lattices.  Poor 
things!"  I  say  feelingly,  "I  sup 
pose  a  Mexican  girl  of  good  family 
must  have  a  very  stupid  time." 

"  Not  in  dthe  slighted,  "  says  the 
Peruvian  with  decision.  "  Vomans 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

air  fery  happy,  I  'sure  you,"  and 
turning  to  me — "  You  vould  like  it 
yourself  after  a  leedle." 

"Indeed  I  shouldn't!  And 
neither  would  the  unfortunates  who 
had  charge  of  me." 

We  pass  a  Catholic  graveyard 
with  high  adobe  wall  and  are  at  the 
Hospital  Municipal,  our  objective 
point.  A  dark  young  man  in  ill- 
fitting  clothes  receives  us  and  shows 
us  about  this  primitive  refuge.  The 
floors  are  tiled  and  all  the  appoint 
ments  are  rude,  but  very  clean. 

Baron  de  Bach  distributes  his 
Mexican  dollars  so  generously  the 
dark  young  man  is  quite  overcome. 
He  asks  some  question  with  solemn 
black  eyes  fixed  on  me.  The  Peru- 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 


vian  laughs  with  slight  confusion  and 
I  catch  "  Si "  in  his  reply.  The  dark 
young  man  puts  another  query. 

"  What's  it  all  about?  "  says  Mrs. 
Steele;  "  you  promised  to  interpret." 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  I  must.  Dthis  zhen- 
t^eman  ask  if  dthis  young  lady  ees 
my  wife  and  if  she  like  roses." 

"  Oh,  let  us  see  the  roses,"  says 
Mrs.  Steele,  calmly  ignoring  the 
wretch's  prevarication,  for  I  know  to 
the  first  question  he  said  "  Yes." 
With  my  nose  in  the  air  I  follow  the 
rest  into  the  rose  garden  of  the  hos 
pital,  where  all  is  so  lovely  I  quite 
forget  I  am  offended. 

Oh,  the  rose  trees  and  the  wilder 
ness  of  bloom ! 

The  dark  young  man  gathers  for 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

Mrs.  Steele  and  the  Baron  de  Bach 
:or  me. 

"  You  ask  me  vonce  vhat  kind  was 
a  Castilian  rose.  Look,  Sefiorita, 
so  weich  so  suss,  so  fein,  wie  die  Cas- 
tilien  Frauen,"  and  he  hands  me  a 
pale  pink  rose,  loose-petalled,  frag 
ile,  and  very  fragrant.  With  great 
bunches  in  our  hands  we  leave  the 
hospital  garden,  and  I  notice  with 
irritation  that  the  dark  young  man 
in  bidding  me  good-bye,  long  life 
and  happiness,  salutes  me  as  "  Se- 
nora."  >. 

It  is  six  o'clock  and  we  drive  to 
wards  the  town.  The  narrow  streets 
are  full  of  idlers  in  every  attitude  of 
picturesque  languor.  Mrs.  Steele 
sympathises  deeply  with  the  lean  and 


LOOK,  SENORITA!"—  Page  48 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

patient  little  burros  with  wooden 
racks  on  their  backs  holding  on  either 
side  a  clay  jar  filled  with  water. 

"  Efery  yar  ees  two  media,  about 
twenty-five  cent  your  money.  Vater 
ees  more  dearer  dthan  vine,"  explains 
our  interpreter. 

We  find  all  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany  assembled  at  the  Hotel  Na- 
cional  in  the  gallery  on  the  ground 
floor  that  looks  into  the  patio.  Mrs. 
Steele  and  I  are  shown  by  a  native 
servant  (half  Indian,  I  should  think) 
into  a  room  across  the  court,  where 
we  make  a  primitive  toilet.  This  is 
the  very  best  hotel  of  Mazatlan,  but 
the  guest  chamber  is  guiltless  of  car 
pet  or  rug;  the  one  high  window, 
grated  and  latticed,  looks  into  the 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

narrow  street.  A  bed  heavily  draped 
with  coarse  curtains  stands  in  one 
corner,  and  under  a  cracked  glass 
giving  forth  a  freckled  and  bilious 
reflection  stands  the  deal  toilet-table. 
A  tin  pan  does  duty  for  bowl,  a  de 
lightful  old  clay  carafe  holds  the 
water,  and  an  abalone  shell  contains 
a  bit  of  yellow  laundry  soap. 

With  these  aids  to  beauty  we  re 
appear  refreshed  and  ready  for  the 
dinner  that  is  spread  in  the  half-open 
gallery.  Only  a  trellis  thickly  man 
tled  with  grape  vines  is  between  us 
and  the  garden ;  indeed,  over  the  top 
of  this  screen  I  can  see,  as  I  sit  at 
the  table,  the  vine-leaves  rise  and 
fall  in  the  soft  air,  and  the  more 
ambitious  tendrils  daintily  pencilled 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

against  the  red  sky  of  that  lovely 
Mexican  evening.  An  odd  dinner 
it  is;  but  Senor  Noma  makes  a  most 
courteous  host,  and  the  dishes  are 
certainly  rare  and  interesting — gen 
erally  peppery  beyond  words  to 
describe  and  most  of  them  liberally 
seasoned  with  garlic.  But  the  lus 
cious  fruits,  the  "vino  bianco''  and 
champagne  cool  our  smarting  palates 
and  reconcile  us  to  our  gastronomic 
ventures.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
meal,  out  of  the  meditative  mood 
that  has  overtaken  him,  Baron  de 
Bach  rouses  himself  to  enter  into 
earnest  conversation  with  the  little 
Mexican  boy  who  is  helping  to  serve 
us.  I  notice  the  boy's  snapping  black 
eyes  and  fine  oval  face,  and  how  he 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


nods  with  an  added  gleam  as  he  says 
"Si!  si!"  to  every  remark  of  the 
Baron's,  and  finally  disappears.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  returns  and  pre 
sents  a  large  bunch  of  lovely  orchids 
to  Mrs.  Steele.  Then  he  exchanges 
a  few  words  with  the  Baron  and  is 
off  again  like  a  shot. 

"  Yust  to  show  you  dthat  flowers 
can  grow  here  out  of  a  hospital  gar- 
den,"  explains  the  Baron,  bowing 
across  the  table  to  my  friend  and 
adding  under  his  breath : 

"  I  haf  send  for  odthers  for  you, 
Senorita." 

Towards  the  end  of  this  curious 
dinner  the  Mexican  boy  returns  with 

great  round  native  basket  piled 
high  with  roses  and  strange  rare 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

flowers  I  have  never  seen  before — 
such  wonderful  fantastic  conceits  in 
bloom  that  I  can  only  look  and  clasp 
my  hands  about  the  dainty  store. 
Mrs.  Steele  recalls  Hernando  Cor 
tes'  wonder  and  delight  at  the  flowery 
surprises  of  the  new  world  three 
hundred  years  ago. 

"Ah,  yes,"  says  Senor  Noma, 
who  has  caught  the  remark,  "  you 
see  we  haf  something  worth  your 
notice  in  this  dark  corner  of  Amer 
ica.  If  you  stay  here  longer  you 
will  find  we  haf  many  things  you 
would  like." 

Baron  de  Bach  is  strangely  quiet 
all  the  evening,  but  the  unfailing 
good  temper  of  our  host  and  the 
gaiety  of  the  others  keep  us  at  the 


a 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

table  till  the  pale  crescent  of  the 
new  moon  looks  in  over  the  vine 
trellis  to  warn  us  of  the  waning 
hours. 

"  We  must  remember  the  Cap 
tain's  caution  to  be  back  by  eleven," 
says  Captain  Ball,  consulting  his 
watch. 

"  Yes,  but  it  ees  scarce  nine 
o'clock,"  says  Senor  Noma.  "  Mrs. 
Steele,  will  you  accept  my  escor'?" 
And  our  clever  host,  having  won 
over  the  only  possible  objector,  leads 
the  way  out  into  the  dim,  mysterious 
street. 

"  Vill  you  haf  zome  Eendian 
dthings,  en  souvenir?"  asks  the 
Baron,  offering  me  his  arm. 

"  Indian  things !  "  I  echoed,  de- 


54 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

lighted.  "  I  should  like  to  see  them 
immensely,  wouldn't  you,  Mrs. 
Steele?  "'and  I  explain.  The  notion 
is  received  with  enthusiasm,  and 
Baron  de  Bach  takes  us  to  a  little 
shop,  where  some  sinister-looking 
men  and  women  show  us  glazed  clay 
mugs  rudely  decorated  and  often 
adorned  with  some  Spanish  name  in 
scrawling  script.  There  are  carafes 
with  cups  to  match,  pipes,  whistles, 
and  animals  in  clay  and  little  dishes 
of  every  description.  The  Baron 
buys  a  great  tray  full  of  these  things, 
and  hires  a  barefooted  u  moso  "  to 
carry  them  down  to  the  wharf.  We 
go  on  to  the  garden-planted  Plaza 
that  had  so  attracted  us  by  day. 
Now  it  is  a  blaze  of  light  and 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

resonant  with  the  strains  of  a  Mexi 
can  band.  Dark-visaged  idlers 
lounge  on  the  long  seats  about  the 
garden,  and  a  constantly  shifting 
throng  moves  up  and  down  on  every 
side. 

Affecting  to  show  me  a  white 
flower  that  thrust  its  dainty  head 
through  the  garden's  iron  fence  and 
filled  the  air  with  heavy,  strange 
perfume,  Baron  de  Bach  separates 
me  a  few  moments  from  my  friends. 

"  At  last,"  he  says,  with  a  deep 
breath,  looking  around  and  seeing 
that  the  others  have  passed  on,  "  I 
haf  you  a  moment  alone.  I  haf 
be*en  in  torture  dthese  seven  hours." 

'  Very  polite  speech,"  I  answer, 
peering  through  the  garden's  iron 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 


palings,  "  seeing  that  you  have  been 
with  me  these  seven  sad  hours." 

"  Ah,  Senorita,  it  ees  no  use  dthat 
I  egsplain,  you  air  zo  fery  heartless. 
I  do  not  find  myself  possible  to  make 
you  out.  You  haf  pairhaps  had  too 
many  tell  you  *  I  loaf  you  ' — you 
care  not  any  more.  I  haf  travel  dthe 
vorld  ofer,  many  beautiful  and  clev- 
air  vomans  haf  loaf  me.  I  haf 
seen  nefer  a  voman  like  you  for  not 
to  care.  Efery  body  loaf  you,  you 
loaf  nobody,  and  vhen  a  man  say 
'  You  air  charmante,'  you  say  *  Vill 
ve  feeshe  to-day?'  If  a  man  say 
c  You  haf  eyes  wie  die  Sternen  im 
Himmel '  you  ask  i  Hear  you  dthose 
bells  of  San  Bias  ? '  and  vhen  a  man 
say  '  I  loaf  you  to  deestraction  '  you 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

tell  him  c  I  do  so  like  dthose  qveer 
Megsican  Eendians.' '  The  Baron 
strikes  the  pavement  violently  with 
his  stick.  '  Vill  you  marry  von  qveer 
Megsican  Eendian,  Senorita?"  I 
laugh  at  the  funny  conclusion  and  the 
Peruvian's  excited  face. 

"Monsieur,"  I  say,  "I'm  told 
that  nearly  every  man  says  *  I  love 
you '  to  an  average  of  eighteen 
women  in  a  lifetime;  he  perhaps 
really  cares  at  various  times  for 
three,  and  the  rest  do  well  to  let  the 
mistake  pass  unchallenged  and  soon 
forgotten.  I  am  not  especially 
strong-minded  myself,  and  I  don't 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 


far  as  to  let  you  think 


A  low  volley  of  French  so  quick 
and  excited  that  I  cannot  follow  it 
is  the  Peruvian's  reply.  I  am  a  little 
bit  uneasy  at  the  look  in  his  face ; 
the  glow  of  ruddy  health  runs  out 
like  a  fast-ebbing  tide,  and  although 
I  have  not  understood  his  French, 
with  the  intuition  of  my  sex  I  com 
prehend  his  face,  and  I  look  around 
for  the  rest  of  the  party.  He  catches 
the  glance  and  seems  to  struggle  for 
self-control. 

"  Senorita,  take  my  arm;  ve  shall 
valk.  I  vill  hope  to  teach  Senorita 
zome  day  dthat  Peruvians  air  no 
liars." 

Ah,  Baron,"  I  say  deprecatingly, 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  I  never  meant  that,  you  didn't  un 
derstand  me — I " 

"  No,"  he  interrupts — "  I  know 
dthat  often  I  understand  you  not  and 
zometimes  it  ees  my  so  bad  Eeng- 
lish  dthat  ees  to  blame.  If  I  could 
tell  you  all  in  Spanish  you  must  be 
lieve,"  and  before  all  the  people  in 
the  Plaza  he  lifts  the  hand  that  lies 
on  his  arm  and  kisses  it. 

I  flash  a  horrified  look  around,  but 
no  one  seems  to  have  noticed. 

"  Like  you  dthe  Spanish  tongue?  " 
he  asks  quite  unconcerned. 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  I  say,  glad  to 
get  him  on  some  impersonal  subject, 
"  it  is  the  most  musical  in  the  world, 
I  believe." 

"  You  vould  soon  learn  it,"  he 


My  Interpreter  at  Mazatlan 

says,  "  you  understand  many  words 
now,  I  know  by  your  face.  Can  you 
say  my  name,  I  vondair;  try!  Fed- 
erico  Guillermo." 

"  Federico  Guillermo,"  I  repeat 
imperfectly — "  what  a  beautiful 
name!  " 

"  Dthen  Blanca  vill  call  me  «  Guil 
lermo.'  I  like  not  *  de  Baron  de 
Bach '  from  her  lips.  Besides  ve 
use  not  titles  in  Peru." 

Mrs.  Steele  and  Senor  Noma  call 
us  from  the  corner  of  the  Plaza  as 
we  approach. 

"  We've"  been  round  four  times 
hunting  for  you ;  where  in  the  world 
have  you  been?"  says  Mrs.  Steele, 
looking  disapproving  and  a  little  out 
of  breath. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Walking  about  here  looking 
for  you !  I  couldn't  imagine  where 
you  were,"  I  say. 

The  others  come  up  and  we  turn 
our  faces  towards  the  harbour.  The 
dusky  oarsmen  are  waiting  for  us, 
and  we  are  soon  skimming  over  the 
dark  water — I  with  my  hoard  of 
flowers  in  my  lap  and  my  eyes  fixed 
on  the  great  dim  hulk  of  the  San 
Miguel  anchored  out  in  the  bay. 


Gffitvter 


CHAPTER   III 

I   AM   LECTURED 

LANCHE,"  says 
Mrs.  Steele  the 
next  morning  as 
she  brushes  out 
the  lovely  waves 
of  prematurely 
grey  hair,  "  what 
are  you  going  to 
do  about  the 

Baron?" 

"Do?"      I      repeat      innocently. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?" 
"  Now,    Blanche,    you    said    if   I 

would  promise  not  to  interfere  you 

would  be  frank.     I'm  not  sure  I  am 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

wise  to  adhere  to  my  side  of  the 
bargain  under  any  circumstances.  I 
never  thought  you  the  kind  of  a  girl 
to  go  on  letting  a  man  fall  more  and 
more  in  love  knowing  all  the  while 
you  would  never  be  able  to  give  him 
more  than  a  passing  interest." 

"How  do  you  know  that?  Per 
haps  I'm  disguising  all  sorts  of  fierce 
and  fiery  feelings  under  my  cool  ex 
terior?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  you  can't  impose 
on  an  old  friend  so  far  as  that.  You 
are  a  queer  girl  and  not  always  easy 
to  understand,  but  you  care  less  for 
the  Baron  de  Bach  than  I  do,  and 
you  know  it.  Now,  what  makes  you 
act  so?  "  and  she  arraigns  me  w"  ' 


"  Dear  Mrs.  Steele,  I'm  a  student 
of  human  nature  in  a  small  way.  If 
I  know  anything  about  our  Peru 
vian  friend  he  will  fall  out  of  *  love/ 
as  you  are  pleased  to  call  his  chronic 
state  of  sentiment,  as  readily  as  he 
fell  in,  and  no  bones  broke,  either. 
He  would  have  forgotten  all  about 
me  before  this  and  gone  over  to 
pretty  Miss  Rogers  and  the  study 
of  photography  except  that  I've  been 
a  bit  obdurate — unusually  so,  he  is 
naive  enough  to  assure  me,  and  his 
vanity  is  piqued." 

Mrs.  Steele  lays  down  her  brush 
and  begins  to  coil  up  the  long,  soft 
hair. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  very  old  for 
your  years.  When  I  was  twenty  I 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

would  have  made  a  hero  out  of  that 
man  instead  of  calmly  picking  out 
his  foibles — girls  are  not  what  they 
used  to  be." 

I  retire  to  my  stateroom  after 
breakfast  to  read.  The  Baron  re 
taliates  by  becoming  aware  of  pretty 
Miss  Rogers'  existence.  Pretty  Miss 
Rogers'  mamma  is  conspicuously  po 
lite  to  him,  and  pretty  Miss  Rogers' 
self  offers  to  play  the  piano  to  his 
violin.  It  is  Mrs.  Steele  who  brings 
me  these  tidings  and  assures  me  that 
Miss  Rogers  plays  well,  and,  as  for 
the  Baron  de  Bach,  he  is  a  master! 
I  resolutely  read  my  book  till  lunch 
eon  time  and,  going  up  on  deck  after 
wards,  I  am  surprised  that  the  ever- 
watchful  Baron  has  not  hurried  to 


I  Am  Lectured 

meet  me.  He  seems  utterly  indif 
ferent  to  the  fact  of  my  presence  and 
leans  beside  Miss  Rogers  at  the 
ship's  rail  talking  contentedly. 

"H'm!"  I  muse,  "music  hath 
charms!  At  all  events  he  must  not 
be  allowed  to  suppose  that  I  notice, 
much  less  care  for,  his  defection," 
and  I  turn  to  talk  animatedly  with 
Captain  Ball  about  Mazatlan.  His 
wife  comes  up  with  an  aggressive- 
looking  Californian  who  has  asked 
several  persons  to  present  him,  but 
I've  successfully  evaded  his  acquaint 
ance  till  now. 

"  It's  not  often  we  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  a  word  with  you,"  says  Mrs. 
Ball,  after  introducing  her  com 
panion.  u  Baron  de  Bach  is  such  a 


3 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

monopolist.  Just  see  how  he  is  en 
grossing  Miss  Rogers  now.  What  a 
pretty  girl  she  is,  and  how  well  she 
plays.  Did  you  hear  her  and  the 
Baron  this  morning?  " 

"  No,"  I  say  calmly,  "  I  was  so 
unfortunate  as  to  miss  that.  Baron 
de  Bach  has  contracted  a  benevolent 
habit  of  reading  French  aloud  to 
Mrs.  Steele  and  me  every  morning, 
and  one  doesn't  always  yearn  to  listen 
to  French  with  a  dreadful  German 
accent,  so  I  excused  myself  and 
passed  the  forenoon  in  my  room." 

"  You  must  be  glad  to  hear  the 
Baron  has  found  some  other  con 
genial  occupation."  Mrs.  Ball 
laughs,  and  exchanges  a  look  with  the 
Californian. 


/  Am  Lectured 

11  It  may  have  its  advantages,"  I 
reply,  determined  not  to  be  ruf 
fled. 

At  that  moment  the  Peruvian 
comes  up  to  ask  me  if  I  will  sit  in  a 
group  to  be  photographed. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  ask  me,"  I  say 
pleasantly;  "  I  hate  sitting  for  my 
picture." 

"  But  I  beg  you.  Madame  Stelle 
haf  promise  to  help  us.  She  ask  me 
to  zay  she  will  spik  vidth  you." 

With  a  show  of  indolence  I  accom 
pany  him  to  where  Mrs.  Steele's 
chair  is  stretched  out  under  the  awn 
ing,  for  the  day  is  very  sultry. 

"  I  haf  play  vidth  Mees  Rogair," 
he  whispers  on  the  way,  "  and  haf 
make  her  promise  to  get  out  her 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

camarah — I  vould  haf  your  photo 
graphic." 

Mrs.  Steele  groups  the  party,  and 
we  succeed  in  getting  several  unusu 
ally  grotesque  and  dreadful  pictures. 
If  anything  could  cure  one  person's 
sentimental  regard  for  another,  it 
would  be  the  sight  of  just  such 
amateur  caricatures  as  were  turned 
out  that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Steele 
looks  a  little  like  her  handsome  self 
in  the  proofs  shown  us  next  day. 
Miss  Rogers  develops  an  unflattering 
likeness  to  a  dutch  doll — I  am  as 
black  as  a  Congo  negro  and  wear 
the  scowl  of  a  brigand,  while  Baron 
de  Bach,  after  carefully  brushing  his 
hair  and  twirling  his  moustache  to  the 
proper  curve,  comes  out  with  a  white 


I  A m  Lectured 

blot  instead  of  a  face;  a  suggestion 
of  one  eye  peers  shyly  forth  from  the 
moon-like  mask,  and  the  Peruvian  is 
greatly  disgusted.  I  shall  ever  re 
gard  an  amateur's  camera  as  a  great 
moral  engine  for  the  extirpation  of 
personal  vanity. 

On  the  evening  of  the  eighth  day 
we  steam  into  the  far-famed  Bay  of 
Acapulco. 

It  is  sunset,  and  from  the  Cap 
tain's  bridge  we  watch  the  head 
lands  taking  bolder  shape  against  the 
brilliant  sky,  the  lighthouse  flushing 
pink  in  the  reflection.  We  see  the 
long,  low  red-roofed  Lazaretto  set 
peacefully  among  the  hills,  and  away 
to  the  right  the  straggling  town  of 
Acapulco,  fringed  with  cocoa  palms 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

and  guarded  on  the  other  side  by  an 
old  and  primitive  fort. 

A  wonderful  land-locked  harbour 
is  Acapulco,  and  the  bold  hills 
circling  it  seemed  that  night  to 
shut  it  out  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

"  That  town  is  more  like  old  Spain 
than  Spain  herself, "  I  hear  a  gentle 
man  from  Madrid  say  to  Mrs.  Steele. 
"  It  has  remained  since  Cortes'  day, 
with  no  other  land  communication 
than  an  occasional  mule  train  affords ; 
and  the  manners  and  customs  and 
speech  of  Cortes'  followers  are  pre 
served  there  to-day." 

"  Can't  we  go  ashore?  "  I  ask  the 
Captain,  pleadingly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  stay  long,"  is 


I  Am  Lectured 


the  gruff  answer.  '*  We  must  get 
away  early  to-morrow  morning." 

But  Baron  de  Bach,  overhearing, 
says: 

"  I  tell  Madame  Steele  ve  can  haf 
supper  in  dthe  town.  Vill  you  come, 
Senorita?" 

"  Thanks,  with  pleasure,  if  Mrs. 
Steele  agrees,"  and  my  spirits  rise 
high  at  the  prospect. 

The  great  red  sun  rests  one  splen 
did  moment  on  the  wooded  heights 
and  dyes  the  waters  of  Acapulco's 
bay  in  dusky  carmine,  and  it  throws 
into  bolder  silhouette  the  black 
hull  of  the  disabled  man-of-war 
Alaska,  anchored  after  many  storms 
in  this  fair  and  quiet  haven.  The 
health  commissioners  are  long  in 


ED 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

coming,  and  it  is  late  before  Mrs. 
Steele,  the  Baron  and  I  are  pushed 
off  from  the  San  Miguel  and  headed 
towards  the  town.  It  is  dark  when 
we  reach  the  wharf,  and  Baron  de 
Bach  gives  us  each  an  arm,  saying : 

"  It  ees  not  safe  dthat  you  leaf 
me ;  stay  close  beside." 

"Yes,"  observes  Mrs.  Steele  en 
couragingly,  "  I've  heard  that  these 
wretches  think  nothing  of  murdering 
a  stranger  for  a  ring  or  a  few  reales." 

"  Dthere  ees  no  fear;  I  haf  mine 
pistol." 

But  nevertheless  I  have  a  delight 
fully  creepy  sensation  as  we  pass  the 
occasional  groups  of  evil-looking  na 
tives,  and  I  keep  close  beside  the 
muscular  Peruvian,  with  a  new  sense 


I  Am  Lectured 

of  comfort  in  his  presence.  At  the 
little  hotel  not  far  from  the  wharf 
the  Baron  orders  supper,  and  then 
takes  us  into  the  market. 

This  interesting  place  is  lit  with 
smoky  old  lamps  and  flaring  torches, 
and  the  fitful  light  shows  weird  pic 
tures  to  our  unaccustomed  eyes. 
Each  booth  is  in  charge  of  one  or 
more  women,  and  here  and  there  is 
a  man  resplendent  in  overshadowing 
sombrero,  with  heavy  silver  braid 
wound  about  the  crown.  The  women 
have  the  scantiest  of  clothing,  arms 
and  neck  bare,  dark  eyes  glittering, 
and  dusky  unkempt  hair.  The  at 
mosphere  is  stifling,  but  we  must  en 
dure  it  long  enough  to  get  some  of 
the  wares.  The  women  chatter 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

volubly,  and  even  leave  their  booths 
to  come  and1  take  us  by  the  dress  and 
urge  us  to  some  dingy  stall.  Vege 
tables  and  fruit  are  piled  about  in 
profusion,  but  we  make  our  way  to 
the  pottery  tables.  I  am  afraid  to 
admire  the  curious  designs  and  ar 
chaic  workmanship,  for  everything 
I  notice  approvingly  the  Peruvian 
straightway  buys,  and  we  soon  have 
a  basket  full. 

"  Ah !  Figurines  you  must  haf !  " 
he  exclaims  as  we  approach  a  booth 
populous  with  little  clay  figures,  tiny 
men  and  women  in  native  dress,  en 
gaged  in  native  avocations.  These 
evidence  no  small  cleverness  in  the 
modeller,  and  the  Baron  insists  on 
taking  a  dozen.  Far  on  the  other 


I  Am  Lectured 

side  of  the  market  some  Indian 
women  crouch  in  a  semi-circle  over 
an  open  air  fire. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  asks 
Mrs.  Steele. 

"  Dthey  make  tortillas,"  says  the 
Baron. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  about  these 
meal  cakes,"  says  my  friend,  stop 
ping  to  look  at  the  queer  group. 
One  old  woman  jumps  up  and  offers 
her  something  smoking  in  a  pan. 
Mrs.  Steele,  bent  upon  discovery, 
bravely  tears  off  a  bit  and  tastes  it, 
throwing  the  woman  a  coin. 

"  Give  me  some,"  I  say. 

"  No,"  interposes  the  Baron,  with 
a  fatherly  decision;  "you  vill  haf 
supper  soon,  and  I  haf  order  tor- 


wss 


B 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

tillas.      Mine   vill   be   better.     Vait 
leedle." 

Really,  the  Baron  has  quite  taken 
me  in  hand,  I  think,  half  amused. 
But  he  is  a  very  necessary  quantity  in 
this  pilgrimage  ashore,  and  I  walk 
on  obediently  by  his  side,  meditating 
how  queer  that  one  who  appeared  so 
masterful  and  imperious  at  times 
could  be  at  others  so  weak  and  al 
most  childish.  It  shed  a  new  light 
on  his  character  to  see  him  ashore. 
Here  he  knows  the  people  and  their 
tongue,  all  our  wants  must  pass 
through  his  interpretation,  and  he  is 
master  of  the  situation.  He  seems, 
moreover,  to  fall  naturally  and  sim 
ply  into  the  new  office,  and  treats  me 
quite  as  if  I  were  a  child.  I  want  to 


I  Am  Lectured 

stop  and  get  some  plantains  as  we 
pass  a  fruit  stall. 

"  No,"  says  the  Baron,  "  you  must 
not  eat  dthem;  dthey  air — unreif" 

"  Ah,  but  really,"  I  say,  "  I  must 
taste  a  plaintain;  suppose  you  had 
never  seen  one  of  that  kind  be 
fore." 

"  I  vill  not  buy  dthem;  I  vill  not 
see  you  ill,"  he  says. 

'  Very  well,  I'll  buy  one  for  my 
self."  I  drop  his  arm  and  run  to  the 
booth,  and,  laying  my  finger  on  the 
greenest  plantain  I  can  find,  I  suy : 

"  Qutnfosf". 

The  old  woman  in  charge  gabbles 
for  dear  life,  and,  not 


away 
that  I 


feeling 


am 


progressing  very  rapidly, 
I  lay  down  a  media  and  take  up  the 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

plantain.  The  Baron  comes  to  my 
rescue  with  a  half-amused,  half- 
vexed  smile. 

"  She  haf  cheat  you,"  and  he  levels 
a  volley  of  Spanish  at  the  old 
criminal.  "  See,"  he  says,  "  she  vill 
gif  you  all  dthose  limes  if  you  gif 
back  dthat  plantain,  you  vill  be  glad 
of  limes  abord  du  San  Miguel!9 

"Yes,"  I  say.  "I'll  have  the 
limes,  too."  And  I  put  down  an 
other  media.  He  looks  at  me  curi 
ously. 

"Ask  her  to  send  them  to  the 
hotel,"  I  say.  He  gives  the  old 
woman  some  rapid  directions. 

"  Now  ve  vill  haf  supper,"  and  we 
are  soon  sitting  in  a  private  room  at 
the  hotel  discussing  soup,  fish,  tor- 


tillas  and  frejoles  (the  Mexican 
black  bean)  and  enchalades,  which 
are  only  the  coarse  Indian  meal 
cakes,  "  tortillas,"  rolled  up  like  a 
French  pancake,  with  cheese  and 
cayenne  pepper  and  a  variety  of 
disagreeable  things  inside,  but  con 
sidered  quite  a  delicacy  among  Mexi 
cans.  It  is  long  before  I  recover 
from  my  first  mouthful,  and  the 
Baron  stands  over  me  with  a  fan 
and  a  glass  of  wine,  while  Mrs, 
Steele  laughs  until  the  tears  come 
into  her  eyes. 

"Water!  water!  "  I  gasp. 

"  No,  vino  bianco,  Senorita," 
says  the  Baron,  putting  the  glass  to 
my  lips.  I  drain  the  last  drop. 

"  Now  some  water,  please. " 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Yes,  leedle  more  vino  bianco" 
says  the  Peruvian,  pouring  out  an 
other  glass. 

"  Don't  you  understand?"  I  say 
hotly.  "  I  want  water — Wasser! 
De  I'eau — dqua!" 

The  waiter  starts  at  the  last  word 
and  takes  up  a  clay  carafe. 

The  Baron  shakes  his  head  and 
gives  some  brief  command  in  Span 
ish.  The  servant  looks  sulky  and 
puts  down  the  bottle. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  say, 
with  still  smarting  tongue.  "Is  it 
Spanish  etiquette  to  ask  a  lady  to 
supper  and  then  refuse  her  a  glass 
of  water?" 

"  Madame,"  says  the  Peruvian 
quietly  to  Mrs.  Steele,  u  no  von  here 


I  Am  Lectured 

drink  vater;  it  makes  always  fery 
seeck,"  and  he  signs  to  the  servant  to 
serve  the  next  course. 

"  I   despise  vino  bianco,"   I  say; 
"  I'd  as  soon  drink  weak  vinegar." 
Nevertheless  I  sip  my  second  glass, 
as  there  is  no  prospect  of  anything 
else. 

A  "  moso  "  comes  in  with  a  big 
basket  containing  our  purchases.  I 
beckon  him  to  bring  it  to  me,  and 
look  among  the  limes  for  my  precious 
plantain. 

"  Sefiorita,"  says  the  Peruvian, 
breaking  off  a  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Steele  upon  native  dishes,  "  I 
haf  here  pineapple  sairve  vidth  ice 
and  sugar  and  vine;  it  is  dthe  most 
delicieux  of  all  fruit.  Allow  me  to 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

raicommend  you."  And  the  waiter 
puts  the  tempting  plate  before  me. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  say,  u  but  I  am 
looking  for  my  plantain.  Will  you 
have  the  boy  find  it,  there  are  so 
many  things  in  this  basket?  "  A  few 
words  between  the  "  moso  "  and  the 
Baron,  the  latter  smiles  a  little. 

'  Tres  curieux,  dthat  old  voman 
forget  to  put  in  dthat  plantain!  " 

Mrs.  Steele's  amusement  is  most 
offensive.  • 

"  My  dear,  you  are  in  the  power 
of  the  interpreter;  you  will  find  our 
friend  less  manageable  on  shore  than 
on  board  the  San  Miguel" 

The  Baron  looks  innocence  itself 
and  creates  a  diversion  by  throwing 
pieces  of  roll  out  over  the  lattice  to 


I  Am  Lectured 

the  street  children,  whose  black  eyes 
and  black  fingers  appear  through 
the  slats.  Each  piece  is  received 
with  squeals,  a  grand  rush  and  pro 
tracted  squabbling,  and  finally  the 
more  audacious  appear  at  the  door. 
They  peep  in,  throw  us  a  flower  and 
then  scuttle  away.  One  tiny  beggar 
brings  a  small  bouquet  and  puts  it 
in  my  lap.  The  Baron  gives  her  a 
media  and  says  something  about 
"  vamos."  She  flies  off,  but  only  to 
tell  the  rest  of  the  success  of  her 
mission,  and  the  whole  horde  troop 
in  and  pile  the  corner  of  the  table 
with  more  or  less  faded  roses  and 
appeal  vociferously  for  "Media! 
media !  "  The  Baron,  seeing  that 
we  are  amused,  tosses  a  coin  over 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


their  heads.  It  goes  over  the  lat 
tice  and  into  the  street,  and  the 
black  little  troop  tear  out  and  fight 
and  scuffle  under  the  window.  They 
come  in  again  and  again,  but  finally, 
Peruvian  patience  and  Mexican  me- 
dias  being  alike  exhausted,  the  Baron 
rises  in  his  seat  looking  remarkably 
ferocious,  and  addresses  them  in  stir 
ring  Spanish.  The  whole  crowd 
take  to  their  heels,  tumbling  one 
over  another  in  excited  haste. 

"  What  in  the  world  have  you 
said?"  asked  Mrs.  Steele,  greatly 
amused. 

"  Oh,  nodthing  much,"  says  the 
Baron  in  his  usual  low  and  gentle 
tone;  "  I  only  zay  if  dthey  effer  come 
again  I  vill  cut  dthem  up  vidth  a  big 


JSL 


/  Am  Lectured 

knife  and  haf  dthem  boil  for  break 
fast." 

uYou  barbarian!"  laughs  Mrs. 
Steele,  rising.  'And  then  she  looks 
about.  "  We  might  have  a  glimpse 
of  the  church  before  we  go  if  there's 
time." 

"  Sairtainly !  "  agrees  the  Baron, 
and  we  find  our  way  through  the 
now  quieter  and  dimmer  thorough 
fare  to  the  Catholic  Cathedral  be 
hind  the  Plaza.  The  occasional 
candle  gives  out  too  dim  a  light  for 
us  to  form  much  of  an  idea  of  the 
interior,  but  it  is  cool  and  damp  and 
mysterious.  Mrs.  Steele,  who  is  a 
thorough  and  highly  intelligent  sight 
seer,  explores  the  dim  corners  and 
finally  goes  back  for  a  last  look  at 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

some  detail  she  found  specially  in 
teresting.  I  wait  for  her  in  the  dusk 
down  by  the  door;  the  Baron  has  dis 
appeared  for  the  moment.  "  I  wish 
Mrs.  Steele  wouldn't  be  so  particu 
lar  about  taking  notes, "  I  say  to 
myself.  "  I'm  tired,  and  it's  very 
uncanny  and  grave-like  here."  A 
little  sound  beside  me,  and  I  turn 
with  a  start.  In  the  dim  light  I 
see  a  chimpanzee-like  face  looking 
up  to  mine.  It  is  horribly  seared 
and  wrinkled,  one  tooth  sticks  out 
from  the  wide,  shrivelled  lips,  and 
the  beady  animal-like  eyes  glare 
through  grey  elf  locks.  I  am  speech 
less  with  fright,  till  the  dreadful 
apparition  stretches  out  a  skinny  arm 
and  with  some  strange  words  lays 


JSL 


I  Am  Lectured 

a  claw-like  hand  on  my  bare  wrist. 
I  shrink  back,  uttering  a  little  muf 
fled  cry  of  horror. 

The  big  Peruvian  comes  hurriedly 
towards  me  from  the  other  side  of 
the  church. 

"Vas  dthat  you,  Sefiorita?"  he 
says. 

Faint  with  fatigue  and  fright,  I 
put  out  a  shaking  hand  to  steady  my 
self  against  the  damp  pillar. 

"  Senorita,  you  air  so  white !  " 
he  says  hurriedly,  and  coming  near 
he  draws  me  away  from  the  clammy 
wall. 

"You  haf  bee*  frighten?"  he 
asks  softly,  his  face  close  to  mine. 

"Yes,"  I  find  breath  to  say; 
"  a  witch  or  a  monkey  is  in  the 


•0 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

church,  and  it  touched  me  in  the 
dark." 

A  shiver  runs  over  me  again  at 
the  remembrance,  but  I  try  to  draw 
away  from  the  strong,  close  grasp. 

"  You  vill  faint,  Senorita — I  can 
not  let  you  go;  dthere  ees  no  seat 
here."  He  takes  off  my  hat  and  fans 
me.  u  Zome  boy  try  to  frighten 
you,"  he  says  consolingly. 

Mrs.  Steele  calls  from  the  other 
side:  ;c  Where  are  you,  Blanche?" 

The  Baron  answers  for  me,  holds 
me  closer  for  an  instant,  and  I  think 
he  touches  my  hair  lightly  with  his 
lips. 

"  Forgif  me,  Senorita.  I  vill  find 
dthat  boy  vhat  frighten  you  zo;  I 
vill  gif  him  von  hundred  pesos  for 


sFT 


my  sake,  and  I  vill  kill  him  after 
wards  for  yours." 

I  put  on  my  hat  a  little  unsteadily, 
still  thinking  more  of  that  awful 
brutish  face  than  of  the  Baron.  Mrs. 
Steele  comes  up  with  note-book  open 
in  her  hand. 

"  I've  just  seen  the  most  dreadful 
little  old  crone,"  she  says  cheerily; 
"  she's  like  some  grotesque  dream — 
why,  what's  the  matter ?" 

She  breaks  off,  looking  at  me  as 
we  stand  under  the  lamplight  just 
outside  the  door. 

"  It  must  be  the  same  thing  I 
saw,"  I  say  to  the  Baron;  "what  a 
goose  I  am — but  it  looked  like  noth 
ing  human  in  the  half  light.  I  was  so 
scared,"  I  confess,  a  little  nervously. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"You  look  like  a  ghost,  child; 
it  was  only  a  withered  old  beggar." 
And  Mrs.  Steele  puts  her  arm  about 
me,  and  we  go  to  inspect  an  ancient 
well  where  the  native  women  are 
filling  clay  jars  and  chatting  mer 
rily  as  they  file  in  and  out  of 
the  gateway  of  the  enclosure  with 
their  picturesque  burdens  gracefully 
poised  on  head  or  shoulder. 

"Let  us  go  to  dthe  Plaza; 
Madame  and  Senorita  can  sit  down 
for  a  leedle." 

It  is  only  a  step,  and  we  are  soon 
resting  on  one  of  the  semi-circular 
stone  seats,  listening  to  some  primi 
tive  music  and  watching  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  people.  Mrs.  Steele 
draws  my  head  down  on  her  shoulder 


and  I  shut  my  eyes.  The  Baron  puts 
a  coat  over  me  and  hums  a  low  ac 
companiment  to  the  fantastic  air. 
Suddenly  I  become  aware  of  some 
one  touching  me  from  behind  the 
stone  seat.  I  start  up  and  turn 
quickly,  to  find  my  apparition  of  the 
church  chattering  at  my  back.  Her 
restless  eyes  and  the  one  white  fang 
shine  out  from  the  shrivelled  mon 
key-face,  and  the  skeleton  arms  with 
•wrinkled,  black  skin  drawn  loosely 
over  the  bones  hold  out  long  strings 
of  shells.  The  strong  light  shows 
her  even  uglier  than  I  had  thought, 
but  it  robs  her  of  her  ghostliness,  and 
I  interrupt  the  Baron's  probably  im 
polite  remarks  by  saying : 

"  Don't  drive  her  away.    I'll  buy 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

some  of  her  shells  in  remembrance 
of  the  worst  shock  IVe  received  in 
Mexico." 

Soon  I  am  decorated  with  chains 
of  sea-treasures  wound  about  waist 
and  neck  and  arms,  and  the  old 
crone  stands  by  gibbering  and  nod 
ding  approval. 

The  Baron  laughs  at  her  last  shot 
as  she  moves  away  with  my  media 
in  her  hand  and  some  unusually  rich 
guerdon  from  him. 

"  What  is  she  chattering  about?  " 
asks  Mrs.  Steele. 

"  She  zay  she  know  dthe  Senorita 
vidth  dthe  pretty  eyes  would  like 
dthe  shaills,  and  dthat  vas  vhy  she 
follow  her  in  dthe  church,  but  Se 
norita  ees  easy  frighten.  Senor  must 


I  Am  Lectured 

take  gude  care  off  her  and  nefer  leaf 
her." 

Mrs.  Steele  smiles  indulgently  and 
draws  out  her  watch. 

"  It's  time  we  were  going,"  she 
says.  "  The  San  Miguel's  lights  will 
be  all  out,  I'm  afraid." 

The  Baron's  "  cargodor  "  meets 
us  at  the  wharf  laden  with  our  bi 
zarre  purchases,  and,  after  bestow 
ing  us  and  them  in  the  boat,  he  dips 
his  oars  and  we  glide  out  into  the 
bay.  The  far-off  steamer  is  wrapped 
in  darkness,  the  lamps  are  all  extin 
guished  in  the  staterooms,  for  it  is 
long  past  eleven,  but  the  waves  flash 
every  attack  of  the  oar,  and  the 
Southern  Cross  shines  aslant  the  sky. 


Gfiapter 


CHAPTER  IV 

DRINK    COCOANUT  MILK    AND    GO 
FISHING    FOR    PEARLS 

FANCY  I  have 
just  fallen  asleep 
when  I  am  roused 
by  hearing  some 
one  speaking  at 
the  port  hole.  I 
open  my  eyes  to 
find  it  is  the  peep  o'  day,  and  out  of 
the  dull,  grey  dawn  a  Mexican's  face 
looks  in  at  my  window. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  de 
mand,  and  in  the  same  breath, 
"Go  away!  Mrs.  Steele!  Mrs. 
Steele !  "  To  my  amazement  Mrs. 


B 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


Steele  appears   in   the   doorway   all 
dressed. 

"  That's  only  the  Baron's  boat 
man,  my  dear,  come  to  call  you. 
I've  had  a  raging  headache,  and  the 
place  was  so  hot  I  dressed  and  went 
up  on  deck,  and  there  was  the  Baron 
de  Bach  pacing  up  and  down — he 
couldn't  sleep,  either.  He  suggests 
we  take  a  boat  and  go  out  to  catch 
the  early  breeze  and  see  the  sun  rise 
from  the  other  side  of  the  bay.  Will 
you  come?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  I  say  sleepily, 
and  not  in  the  best  of  tempers. 
"There  was  no  need  to  send  that 
evil-looking  brigand  to  wake  me! 
My  nerves  are  in  a  continual  tremor 
in  this  blessed  place.  Do  you  know, 


/   Drink    Cocoanut  Milk 


Mrs.  Steele,"  I  say,  fishing  under  the 
berth  for  a  renegade  stocking,  "  IVe 
a  sort  of  presentiment  I  shan't  leave 
the  shores  of  the  Pacific  without 
some  kind  of  misfortune  or  hair 
breadth  escape." 

"  Nonsense  1  "  says  my  practical 
friend,  "  youVe  eaten  something 
that  has  disagreed  with  you.  Hurry 
as  fast  as  you  can;  the  Captain  says 
we  weigh  anchor  at  eight  o'clock." 

I  finish  a  hasty  toilet  and  follow 
Mrs.  Steele  on  deck.  The  Baron  is 
waiting — he  looks  pale  and  rather 
graver  than  usual. 

"  Good-morning,  Sefiorita,"  he 
says,  and  we  shake  hands.  "  Haf 
you  sleep  ?  " 

u  Oh,  yes,"  I  say,   accepting  the 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

coffee  he  has  ordered.     "  I  always 
sleep." 

The  first  faint  flush  of  the  coming 
splendour  spreads  above  the  hills  as 
we  push  off  from  the  San  Miguel. 
Deeper  and  deeper  grow  the  purple 
and  the  saffron  till  long  shafts  of 
golden  light  shoot  up  from  hilltop 
to  high  heaven,  and  the  great  red 
sun  of  the  tropics  peers  an  instant 
over  the  mountain  wall  that  shuts  in 
Acapulco. 

"  This  is  a  sunrise  I  think  we  shall 
never  forget,"  says  Mrs.  Steele  with 
grave  enjoyment. 

The  Baron  and  I  say  nothing. 

The  air  blows  cool  and  fresh,  and 
we  skirt  the  rugged  beach,  close  to 
the  high-piled  rocks  at  the  water's 


B 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

edge,  till  we  come  to  a  cocoa  grove 
sheltering  a  few  thatched  cottages. 

The  Baron  gives  some  direction 
to  the  boatman,  and  we  are  moored 
in  shallow  water.  The  Mexican 
jumps  out  of  the  boat  and  disappears 
in  the  grove.  The  water  is  so  clear 
we  have  been  able  to  see  the  bottom 
for  a  long  time,  and  now  the  Baron 
shows  me  how  to  use  a  boathook  in 
spearing  the  red  starfish.  We  suc 
ceed  in  bringing  up  several,  but  they 
turn  brown  when  out  of  the  water 
and  are  said  to  sting.  So  we  throw 
them  back  and  turn  to  hear  the 
Indian  water-women  singing  and 
laughing  as  they  follow  the  winding, 
rugged  path  half  way  up  the  heights. 
The  red-brown  feet  and  ankles  must 

1 105 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

be  as  strong  as  they  are  shapely;  the 
arms  holding  aloft  the  water  jars 
are  well  moulded  and  taper  finely 
to  the  wrist;  splendid  freedom  is  in 
every  motion  and  a  grace  their  fairer 
sisters  have  forgotten.  I  see  the  ad 
miration  in  Baron  de  Bach's  face. 

"You  like  that  type?"  I  ask. 

"  It  ees  part  of  dthe  landscape," 
he  answers;  "  ve  like  it  in  dthe  pic 
ture.  Ve  put  more  deeferent  vomans 
in  our  hearts  and  homes." 

"H'm!"  coughs  Mrs.  Steele. 
"  My  dear,  the  boatman  is  coming 
back  with  a  huge  bunch  of  cocoa- 
nuts." 

"Yes,"  the  Baron  says,  "I 
dthought  you  vould  like  to  taste  dthe 
milk." 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

The  Mexican  rolls  up  his  white 
trousers  and  wades  back  to  the  boat. 
He  pulls  his  naked  knife  out  of  his 
sash  and  begins  to  cut  away  the 
thick  green  rind  of  the  nut.  That 
done,  the  Baron  takes  it  from  him 
and  shows  us  the  three  eyes  at  one 
end  where  the  fibre  is  soft.  When 
the  sharp  point  of  the  knife  is  in 
serted  the  liquid  within  spurts  up 
into  the  Baron's  face. 

"Oh!"  he  says,  with  a  comical 
look  of  dismay,  "  ve  haf  no  cup; 
ve  must  drink  like  dthe  natives,"  and 
he  saws  away  an  opening  and  hands 
the  cocoanut  to  Mrs.  Steele.  She 
puts  her  lips  to  the  shell  and  tastes 
a  drop  with  dainty  distrust. 

"  Oh,  Madame,  it  ees  fery  gud 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


you  vill  like  it  if  you  drink  more !  " 
But  Mrs.  Steele  passes  it  on  to  me. 
The  first  sip  is  so  cool  and  refresh 
ing  I  greedily  tip  the  shell  to  take 
a  long  draught,  and  the  liquid  runs 
down  both  sides  of  my  mouth  into 
my  lap.  The  Baron  insists  there  is 
an  art  in  cocoanut  tippling. 

"  You  must  hold  dthe  mout'  zo — " 
and  he  illustrates,  "  and  dthe  cocoa 
zo."  He  puts  it  cautiously  to  his 
lips.  "  Now !  "  he  says,  after  taking 
a  sip,  "  you  try!  " 

With  childish  good  faith  I  take 
the  clumsy  nut,  but  as  I  lift  it  to 
drink  I  notice  a  covert  gleam  of  sat 
isfaction  in  the  Peruvian's  eyes,  and 
I  realise  in  a  flash  that  the  cocoa 
shell  is  becoming  a  sort  of  a  loving- 


a 


I  Drink   Cocoanut  Milk 

cup — for  there  was  but  one  little 
place  cut  for  drinking  where  first  I 
essayed  the  draught  and  then  the 
Baron. 

"  My  dear,"  remarks  my  quiet 
but  observant  chaperon,  '  I  have 
never  been  able  before  to  account  for 
the  milk  in  the  cocoanut.  I  know  all 
about  it  now !  " 

I  throw  the  shell  into  the  water 
with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  know  all  I  wish  to.  It's  a 
great  bother  and  very  little  gained." 

The  Baron  looks  disagreeably 
amused,  and  I  feel  hot. 

"  Capitan,"  he  says  to  me,  "  vill 
you  take  dthe  tiller  again?  " 

I  pick  up  the  tiller  ropes  and  steer 
out  towards  some  small  schooners 


S6& 


El 


JSL 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

grouped  to  the  left  of  the  town  near 
the  entrance  of  the  harbour. 

"  I  do  believe  those  are  pearl  fish 
ers,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  who  has  been 
looking  through  her  glass.  The 
Baron  starts  up  and  questions  the 
Mexican. 

"  Si!  Si!  "  he  answers,  and  with 
long,  even  strokes  he  brings  us 
within  speaking  distance  of  the  near 
est  vessel.  Baron  de  Bach  stands  up 
and  shouts  out  a  series  of  inquiries  in 
Spanish.  I  look  over  the  side  of  the 
boat,  and  at  a  vision  in  the  water  I 
start  from  my  seat  with  a  shriek  of 
delight  and  almost  capsize  the  poor 
Peruvian.  He  clutches  wildly  at  the 
air  and  finally  keels  over  backwards 
on  the  astonished  Mexican. 


Id? 


I  Drink   Cocoanut  Milk 

When  they  recover  they  find  Mrs. 
Steele  and  me  leaning  over  the  side 
of  the  boat  following  the  uncertain 
motions  of  a  bloated  crab-like  mon 
ster  crawling  along  the  bottom  of 
the  deep. 

"Why,  that's  the  diver,"  ex- 
plains  Mrs.  Steele.  "  You  see  that 
rubber  tube — one  end  is  attached 
to  the  machine  on  the  schooner, 
the  other  to  his  helmet;  he 
breathes  through  that.  They  are 
pumping  air  through  it  every  mo 
ment." 

"  Yes,"  says  the  Baron,  having 
regained  his  equilibrium.  '  You 
cannot  zee,  but  he  haf  a  basket  tie 
vidth  a  cord  to  hees  belt;  he  fill  it 
vidth  shaills,  and  vhen  he  make  a 


El 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


pull  dthey  draw  it  up  and  empty  it. 
Zee,  now!" 

He  points  to  the  steamer  where, 
hand  over  hand,  they  haul  in  a  cable. 
At  the  end  is  the  square  wicker 
basket  filled  with  great  pearl  shell 
oysters.  They  turn  them  out  and 
lower  the  receptacle  for  another 
load.  The  Baron  throws  some 
money  to  a  man  in  the  schooner,  and 
soon  three  or  four  pearl  oysters  are 
tossed  into  our  boat.  The  Mexi 
can's  knife  is  again  called  into  requi 
sition  and  the  shells  are  forced  open. 
Nothing  in  the  first — nothing  in  the 

second — nothing  in  th stop !  the 

Baron  has  found  a  pearl! 

"  It  ees  von  chance  out  of  a  dthou- 
sand!  "  he  says,  amazed.     "  I  nefer 


BARON   HAS  FOUND   A   PEARL! "—  Page  IT2 


I  Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

found  von  before — but  it  ees  so 
leedlel", 

"Never  mind!"  I  say  with  en 
thusiasm.  "  We've  been  pearl-fishing 
and  we've  found  a  pearl !  " 

Mrs.  Steele  is  examining  it  mi 
nutely;  the  Baron  leans  over  to  me 
and  says  low,  in  German: 

"  It  shall  be  set  for  you  in  dia 
monds,  Fraulein;  it  will  remind  you 
of  spilt  cocoanut  milk  and  pearl- 
fishing  in  Acapulco's  shining  bay — 
it  will  mean  to  me  a  woman,  Blanca, 
fine  and  fair,  I  found  on  the  ocean. 
As  I  think  of  all  it  signifies  to  me,  I 
believe  I  must  ask  you  to  let  me  keep 
my  pearl,"  and  he  gazes  into  my  eyes 
with  such  a  world  of  meaning  in  his 
own,  I  look  away  and  trail  my  hand 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

in  the  water.  "  What  say  you,  Frau- 
lein?  "  he  persists.  "  I  have  travelled 
so  far  to  find  it,  I  have  so  nearly 
missed  it,  and  here  at  last  it  lies  in 
my  possession." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  it  is  in  your  pos 
session?"  I  say,  looking  across  to 
Mrs.  Steele,  who  is  rolling  the  tiny 
treasure  about  in  her  palm. 

"  At  least,"  he  says,  "  it  is  within 
the  reach  of  a  strong  arm,  and  if  a 
jewel  begged  is  not  generously  given, 
it  can  be  snatched  out  of  a  capri 
cious  hand,  if  only  for  safer  keep 
ing "  and  the  Peruvian's  deep 

eyes  look  into  my  half-averted  face. 

"  My  friend  does  not  speak  Ger 
man,"  I  say;  "she  will  think  you 
very  rude."  Then  in  English, 


ret 


a 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

Please  let  me  see  the  pearl  again, 
Mrs.  Steele." 

It  is  absolutely  flawless,"  she 
says,  holding  it  out  to  me.  The 
Peruvian  intercepts  it.  He  draws 
out  of  an  inner  pocket  a  gold- 
mounted  letter-case  and  a  book  of 
cigarette  paper.  Deliberately  he 
wraps  the  pearl  in  one  of  the  tissue 
leaves,  and,  looking  steadily  at  me, 
pushes  the  new  treasure  far  into  a 
corner  of  the  crested  case.  There 
is  more  significance  than  mirth  in  the 
laugh  with  which  he  says : 

"  I  vill  show  all  unbelief ers  dthat 
I  know  how  to  value  and  to  keep  a 
pearl  vhen  I  find  von." 

Mrs.  Steele  succumbs  to  one  of 
her  old  headaches  on  our  return  to 


R 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

the  steamer,  and  I  pass  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  in  seclusion  with  her. 
After  luncheon,  as  I  linger  to  super 
intend  the  arrangements  of  the  in 
valid's  tea-tray,  the  Baron  joins  me. 

"  I  am  vairy  sorry  about  Madame 
Steele's  headache.  Tell  me,  please, 
vhat  can  I  do?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  I  say; 
"there  is  no  remedy.  She  is  accus 
tomed  to  these  attacks. 

"If  nodthing  does  gude  dthen  vhy 
stay  you  efer  in  dthat  room  ;  you  vill 
be  ill,  too." 

"Oh,  no,"  I  say,  "no  fear  of 
that." 

"  But,"  he  insists,  "  if  you  do  nod- 
thing  only  sit  in  dthat  room,  let  me 

come  out  in 


stay 


you 


/  Drink   Cocoanut  Milk 

dthe  air.  Madame  Steele  ees  not 
like  you;  she  like  me  vairy  veil." 

"  She  likes  me  better,  and  I  can't 
leave  her." 

"  Haf  you  no  care  for  your 
healdth?  You  air  not  fit  to  take 
care  of  yourself — dthat  old  voman  in 
Acapulco  vas  right;  you  should  nefer 
be  leaf  alone." 

"  Doesn't  it  ever  occur  to  you  that 
I  might  be  so  accustomed  to  manag 
ing  my  own  affairs  that  interfer 
ence  from  an  outsider  might  seem 
strange?  " 

"Outsidah!"  he  repeats.  "I 
know  not  dthat  word.  I  know  only 
American  vomans  haf 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


you  raispect  no  von's  judgment,  you 
need  zome  strong  man  to  rule." 

1  To  rule!"  I  echo,  scornfully; 
"  that  may  do  for  Peruvians,  but  our 
women  are  neither  slaves  nor  imbe 
ciles." 

"  No,"  he  retorts,  "  but  zome  zay 
your  men  air  a  leedle  of  bodth !  " 

"  It  is  not  to  the  credit  of 
'  some  '  " — I  set  down  the  salt  cellar 
hard  on  the  tray — "  that  they  fail 
to  appreciate  my  countrymen.  They 
have  at  least  encouraged  our  learn 
ing  to  take  such  good  care  of  our 
selves  that  no  Peruvian  need  trouble 
his  head  about  us." 

I  beckon  to  the  Chinese  waiter. 

1  Take  this  tray  up  to  49,"  and 
I  follow  him  with  some  show  of 


/   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 


disdain.  Sefior  Noma  meets  me 
at  the  foot  of  the  dining-room 
stairs. 

I  haf  sent  for  a  jar  of  chili- 
peppers  for  Mrs.  Steele.  Will  you 
say  your  friend  I  raicommend  chili- 
peppers,  and  I  advice  you  put  a  little 
cayenne  in  the  bif-tea.  It  makes 
vairy  seeck  without." 

"  Thank  you,  Sefior  Noma,"  I 
say;  "  Wah-Ching  will  bring  up  the 
peppers  and  I  will  tell  Mrs.  Steele 
what  you  say."  I  glance  back  at 
the  Peruvian.  He  is  sitting  by  the 
table  just  as  I  left  him,  his  chin  in 
one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he 
strokes  the  wavy  moustache  and 
regards  me  with  lowering  looks. 
"  He's  a  handsome  creature,"  I 


Under  the  Southern   Cross 

think,  as  I  go  upstairs;  "  but  he's 
been  told  it  too  often,  and  he  has 
abominably  mediaeval  ideas  about 
women." 

All  that  hot  afternoon  I  sit  in  the 
stuffy  stateroom  with  Mrs.  Steele. 
The  wind  has  veered  to  the  other 
side  and  not  a  breath  stirs  the  cur 
tains  at  our  little  window.  About 
four  o'clock  the  "  Church  of  Eng 
land"  knocks  at  the  door.  She  is 
profuse  in  proffers  of  assistance,  and 
kindly  tells  me  I  am  looking  very 
badly.  "  You'd  better  go  out  for  a 
little  air,"  she  says;  "you'll  find  my 
daughter  and  Baron  de  Bach  sitting 
in  the  breeze  on  the  other  side.  He 
has  teased  Nellie  to  get  out  her 

concert. 


gutar;   we 


qute 


a 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

What  a  charming,  bright  companion 
he  is!  "  she  says,  appealing  to  me. 

"Very,  very!"  I  assent,  with  a 
slight  yawn. 

"  Do  go  out,  Blanche,  I  don't  need 
you  here."  Mrs.  Steele  looks  a  little 
self-reproached. 

"  No,  dear,  I  know  you  don't  care 
about  my  staying,"  I  answer,  "  but 
I'm  a  little  tired  of  the  deck." 

The  "  Church  of  England" 
drones  on  about  Nellie,  who  is  "  such 
a  child,  only  seventeen;  so  unsophis 
ticated  and  so  unworldly." 

"  Just  imagine,  she  quite  snubs 
that  handsome  Peruvian  nobleman, 
and  he  is  really  delightful,  you 
know." 

We  draw  a  simultaneous  sigh  of 


ED 


8ft 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

relief  when   the   "  Church  of  Eng 
land  "  leaves  us  to  ourselves. 

"Blanche,"  says  Mrs.  Steele, 
"  you've  been  fighting  again  with  the 
Baron.  Those  Rogers  people  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  attach  him  to 
their  party.  I  wouldn't  let  them  do 
it  if  I  were  you.  It  would  be  too 
much  of  a  feather  in  their  cap  to 
have  distracted  him  from  us  after 
his  very  palpable  devotion  and  our 
unusual  friendliness." 

"  No,  dear,  I  won't  let  our  inter 
preter  be  wiled  away  from  us. 
Leave  him  to  me.  He's  very  exas 
perating  at  times,  but  I'll  bear  with 
him  in  future;  there's  no  denying 
it  would  be  comparatively  stupid 
without  him." 


I  Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

Mrs.  Steele  raises  the  bandage 
from  her  eyes  and  looks  at  me. 

"  It  strikes  me  you  are  about  to 
experience  a  change  of  heart.  If  it 
were  almost  any  other  girl,  I'd  say 
beware !  " 

I  laugh  with  confident  unconcern. 

u  Oh,  I  don't  deny  I  find  him  more 
interesting  than  I  did  at  first.  He 
enrages  me  with  his  imperious  self- 
confidence,  and  then  charms  me  with 
his  curious,  romantic  ways.  I  look 
upon  the  Baron  de  Bach  as  a  kind 
of  blessed  invention  for  my  enter 
tainment  on  this  trip,  and  that  I've 
grown  to  like  him  better  than  I  ex 
pected  makes  the  amusement  keener, 
of  course.  I'm  tired  to  death  of  the 
commonplace,  mild  and  circumspect 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

adorer.  Baron  de  Bach  is  a  con 
tinual  surprise  and  an  occasional 
alarm !  Nothing  reprehensible !  "  I 
say,  in  answer  to  the  quick  lifting  of 
the  bandage  a  second  time.  "  Only 
he  is  so  unlike  all  the  other  men  I 
have  known  I  can't  judge  him  by 
any  previous  standard.  I  have  the 
same  interest  in  him  Uncle  John  had 
in  the  new  variety  of  anthropoid  ape 
in  the  Zoo  at  home.  I  study  his  pos 
sibilities,  I  starve  him,  I  feed  him,  I 
poke  him,  just  to  see  what  he'll 
do." 

"  You're  a  wicked  girl,"  says 
Mrs.  Steele,  slowly,  "  and  I'm 
afraid  a  righteous  judgment  will 
overtake  you.  Do  you  remember 
telling  me  how  that  same  ape  tore 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

your  Uncle  John's  hand  one  day? — 
and  he  was  caged." 

"  Maybe  the  element  of  uncer 
tainty  accounts  for  some  of  the  inter 
est,"  I  say,  yawning.  "  I  believe  I'll 
have  a  nap  before  dinner."  And 
soon  all  is  quiet  in  stateroom  49. 

On  Saturday  morning,  the  day 
following,  Mrs.  Steele,  the  Baron 
and  I  are  sitting  as  usual  under  the 
deck  awning.  Baron  de  Bach  is 
reading  a  French  story  aloud  to 
Mrs.  Steele,  and  I,  lying  back  in  my 
steamer  chair,  regard  the  reader  with 
half-shut  but  attentive  eyes. 

"  He's  only  a  boy,"  I  ruminate, 
"  a  romantic,  absurd,  but  very  nice 
boy.  There's  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  like  him  very  much ;  and  if 


ret 


B 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

he  must  be  in  love  with  someone,  I'm 
a  very  safe  person  for  him  to  select 
as  the  victim."  I  smile  as  the  last 
word  comes  across  my  mind,  for  I 
am  honest  enough  to  doubt  if  I  really 
mind  it  so  much.  The  Baron  turns 
a  page  and  sees  the  look. 

"  Vhy  you  laugh,  Sefiorita?" 
"  Thinking       about       something 
funny." 

"  I  dthink  you  laugh  at  me." 
"  Don't  you  suppose  I  may  once 
in  a  while  think  of  someone  else  be 
sides  you?  "    The  Baron  looks  puz 
zled  and  a  little  bit  offended. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Steele," 
says  the  "  Church  of  England," 
bustling  up  to  my  friend  with  Mrs. 
Ball  behind  her.  "  How  tired  you 


BC3 


I   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

look!  Haven't  you  had  enough  of 
that  French?  Baron  de  Bach  has 
promised  to  come  and  practise  over 
the  chants  and  hymns  for  to-morrow; 
can  you  spare  him?  As  for  you," 
she  says,  turning  to  me,  "  we  shall 
earn  your  eternal  gratitude  if  we 
carry  off  the  Baron.  You  know  her 
pet  aversion  is  having  French  read 
out  loud  " — she  nods  in  a  commis 
erating  way  to  the  Peruvian. 

"  Certainly,  don't  let  us  keep 
you  " — Mrs.  Steele  with  her  pleas 
ant  tact  ignores  the  reference  to  me 
— "we  will  finish  that  charming 
chapter  another  time." 

"  Vhat  means  petta-vairsion  ?  " 
says  the  Baron,  looking  undecided 
and  not  exactly  delighted. 


•H 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Oh,  it  means  favourite  pastime," 
says  Mrs.  Steele. 

"Oh!  oh!"  giggles  Mrs.  Ball. 
"  Miss  Blanche  said  the  reading 
made  her  tired." 

The  Baron  shuts  up  the  book  with 
a  snap. 

"  Madame  Rogair,  I  am  at  your 
sairvice !  " 

Without  looking  at  me  he  raises 
his  cap  to  Mrs.  Steele  and  follows 
the  "  Church  of  England." 

"  Did  you  say  the  reading  tired 
you?"  asks  Mrs.  Steele. 

"  I  believe  I  did,  or  something  of 
the  kind." 

"Pity!  Those  people  will  make 
all  they  can  out  of  it.  The  Baron 
told  me  at  breakfast  that  Mrs.  Rog- 


128 


/   Drink    Cocoanut   Milk 

ers  had  asked  him  to  join  their  party 
at  the  next  port." 

"  But  he  won't " — I  open  my 
journal  to  write  up  the  previous  day. 

The  morning  was  rather  dull,  to 
tell  the  truth,  and  the  sounds  of  rev 
elry  that  floated  up  from  the  scene 
of  the  practising  below  were  not  too 
"  sacred "  to  be  irritatingly  attrac 
tive.  But  even  after  luncheon  the 
Baron  remains  with  the  "  Church  of 
England." 

"  Gone  over  to  the  enemy.  I  told 
you  so,"  Mrs.  Steele  observes,  as  we 
sit  alone  in  our  corner  of  the  deck, 
while  over  on  the  opposite  side  Baron 
de  Bach  stands  laughing  and  chat 
ting  with  pretty  Miss  Rogers. 

"  Mrs.  Steele,"  I  whisper,  "  I  be- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

lieve  he  only  does  it  for  our  edifica 
tion  and  because  I  said  the  reading 
tired  me.  Let  us  go  to  our  state 
room;  the  wind  is  on  our  side 
to-day."  We  read  and  sleep  in 
seclusion  until  evening. 


mi? 


Cffiqpter 


(Q 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    BARON   IS    CRAZED   WITH 
MADNESS 


T    dinner,  refreshed 
with  my  long  rest, 
I      feel      unusually 
light-hearted      and 
gay.     I  *  laugh   and 
»   chat     with     Senor 
^-*  N  o  m  a     and     the 

rough  old  Captain,  till  Mrs.  Steele 
leans  over  and  gives  me  a  look  of 
surprise.  Not  once  do  the  eyes  of 
the  Peruvian  turn  in  my  direction, 
and  he  leaves  the  table  before  des 
sert.  He  is  not  visible  on  deck  when 
we  go  up  later  and,  after  talking  a 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


while  to  the  others,  I  start  off  on  a 
tour  of  discovery. 

Down  at  the  further  end  of  the 
steamer,  to  windward  of  the  smoke 
stack,  stands  the  Baron  in  a  depressed 
attitude  smoking  a  pipe  and  looking 
out  to  sea. 

"  Oh,  you're  here!  "  I  call  out  in 
friendly  fashion.  "  I've  been  look 
ing  for  you.  I'm  sorry  if  I  was 
rude  about  the  reading "  —I  look 
as  meek  and  penitent  as  I  know 
how. 

The  Baron  takes  out  his  pipe  and 
walks  to  the  vessel's  side,  where  he 
knocks  out  the  ashes. 

"  Well!  "  I  insist,  "  I've  said  I'm 
sorry,  and  in  English  the  proper  re 
ply  to  that  is  *  I  forgive  you.' ' 


Baron    is    Crazy    with    Madness 


A  curious,  lingering  look  out  of 
those  dark  eyes  of  his. 

"  I  forgif  you,"  he  says,  as  a  child 
repeats  a  lesson. 

"  And  we  must  be  friends  again, 
nicht  wahr?  "  I  hold  out  my  hand. 

"No,  Senorita."  He  takes  the 
hand,  but  shakes  his  head. 

"No!"  I  echo;  "why  not?" 

"  Because  I  haf  nefer  been  your 
friend.  I  haf  always  loaf  you,  I  haf 
forget  vhat  it  vas  like  not  to  loaf 
you.  It  ees  true  you  vere  scarce  po 
lite  about  dthe  reading.  I  did  not 
know  I  bore  you.  I  feel  it  fery 
deep.  It  might  not  matter  to  zome 
Nordthern  zhentlemen,  but  I  am 
dthe  most  sensible  man  you  ever 
know." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Sensible !  "  I  say,  in  a  tone 
scarcely  flattering,  trying  to  keep 
my  lips  from  twitching. 

"Yes,  I  am  terrible  sensible;  a 
fery  leedle  dthing  vill  hurt  me." 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  be  your  friend, 
anyhow,  and  I'll  try  to  be  very  con 
siderate.  I'll  show  you  what  a  good 
friend  a  North  American  can  be." 

"  My  gude  friend  haf  make  my 
head  zo  ache  I  dthink  it  vill  burst." 

He  pushes  back  his  cap,  and  car 
ries  my  hand  to  his  forehead;  it  is 
very  hot  and  the  temples  throb  under 
my  fingers. 

"Poor  fellow!"  I  say,  hoping 
with  might  and  main  that  no  one 
sees.  "  Shall  I  send  you  some  eau 
de  Cologne?" 


Baron    is    Crazy   'with    Madness 

"No!  no!  If  you  vould  gif  me 
your  hand  again." 

"No,"  I  say,  "not  here.  Any 
one  who  saw  us  would  misunder 
stand.  Come  to  Mrs.  Steele;  she'll 
give  you  something." 

"No!"  says  the  Peruvian.  "I 
vill  stay  here;  you  stay,  too.  Ah, 
Senorita,  how  can  you  be  so  indif 
ferent  to  my  loaf?  " 

"  I  can't  stay  here  if  you  talk  non 
sense." 

"  Mein  Gott!  Vhat  more  sense 
can  a  man  haf  dthan  to  loaf  you?  " 

"Oh,  see  the  porpoises!"  I  say 
abruptly.  The  great  clumsy  fish  are 
floundering  about  us  in  schools. 

"  Vhat  heafen  eyes  you  haf,  Se 
norita  !  " 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  I  do  believe  that's  *  San  Jose 
Joe.'"  I  run  to  the  rail.  "You 
know !  the  huge  old  shark  all  covered 
with  barnacles  the  seamen  tell 
about." 

*  You  vill  nefer  listen,"  says  the 
Peruvian,  plunging  his  hands  far 
down  in  his  yachtsman's  jacket.  "  I 
dthink,  Senorita,  ven  you  die,  and 
St.  Peter  meet  you  at  dthe  gate  and 
say,  '  You  haf  lif  gude  life,  come  into 
Heaven  ' — you  vill  fery  like  look 
over  your  shoulder  and  say,  *  Oh, 
Peter!  vhere  go  all  dthose  nice  lee- 
die  devils?'" 

The  Peruvian's  last  shot  certainly 
diverts  me  from  all  finny  creatures, 
and  we  sit  down  on  a  pile  of  lumber, 
and  the  Baron  shows  me  his  rings 


Baron    is    Crazy    with   Madness 

and  seals — tells  me  where  each  came 
from  and  the  story  attached.  He 
finally  pulls  out  of  his  pocket  a  ros 
ary.  "  I  haf  carry  dthis  efer  since 
I  was  in  Egypt." 

This  simple  little  string  of  olive 
stones  and  carved  ebony  beads  quite 
captivates  my  fancy,  and  the  penalty 
for  the  expression  of  my  liking  is 
that  I  must  try  it  on.  He  winds  it 
about  my  wrist  and,  having  forced 
open  one  of  the  silver  links,  he  bends 
down  and  with  those  sharp,  white 
teeth  bites  the  open  link  close  again 
— the  blond  moustache  sweeps  my 
wrist  and  the  rosary  is  securely  fas 
tened. 

"  Now,"  I  say,  "  see  what  youVe 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


:t  It  comes  not  off  till  you  are 
zomething  less  dthan  my  friend  or 
zomething  more." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  take  your  rosary; 
that's  absurd!  " 

"  You  cannot  take  a  few  leedle 
pieces  of  vood  from  your  friend? 
Vhy,  dthose  leedle  voods  are  only 
dthe — dthe — dthe — how  you  say  ? — 
bones  off  dthe  olive." 

I  laugh  till  I  ache.  "  Bones  of 
the  olive!"  I  almost  roll  off  the 
lumber  in  a  spasm  of  merriment. 
Mrs.  Steele,  who  wonders  at  my  long 
absence,  comes  with  Sefior  Noma  to 
find  me,  and  soon  there  are  three 
laughing  at  the  poor  Baron's  ex- 


Hush,   Blanche,    it's   really  too 


Baron   is   Crazy   'with   Madness 


bad — you  must  pardon  her,  Baron," 
says  Mrs.  Steele. 

"  I  mind  it  not  more,"  says  the 
Peruvian,  with  new  philosophy. 
"  Senorita  vould  laugh  in  dthe  face 
of  St.  Peter." 

When  the  gong  sounds  for  service 
on  the  morning  of  the  second  Sunday 
out,  the  Baron  grumbles  feelingly 
at  the  interruption.  He  is  sketching 
Mrs.  Steele  and  me  and  says  he 
"  hates  playing  on  a  zo  bad  violin  " 
— but  a  promise  is  a  promise,  and 
we  all  go  down  "  to  church  "  in  the 
close  dining-room.  The  Captain 
reads  the  beautiful  Morning  Pray 
ers  and  Litanies  like  a  schoolboy, 
but  the  music  is  really  admirable. 
Pretty  Miss  Rogers  appears  to  strik- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

ing  advantage.  Dressed  simply  in 
white,  she  plays  the  accompaniments 
and  leads  the  singing  in  a  sweet, 
true  voice.  Mrs.  Steele  and  I  sit 
in  the  background,  and  I'm  afraid 
I  think  but  little  of  the  service. 
Now  what  perversity  is  in  the  mind 
of  man,  I  meditate,  that  blinds  him 
to  such  real  beauty  and  accomplish 
ment  as  Miss  Rogers  is  blessed  with? 
Of  course,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
not  to  see  that  with  all  my  sadly  pal 
pable  defects  of  face  and  temper, 
the  big  Peruvian  finds  me  somehow 
interesting  and  "  Miss  Rogair  a  nice 
girl,  but,  like  a  dthousand  odthers  I 
haf  know,  a  leedle  stupeed."  Ah, 
the  u  stupidity  "  is  on  the  other  side, 
I'm  afraid!  Miss  Rogers  is  too  in- 


B 


Baron    is    Crazy    'with   Madness 

experienced,  my  thoughts  run  on,  to 
disguise  her  liking  for  the  Baron,  and 
instead  of  being  pleased  or  flattered 
as  he  should  be,  he  will  leave  her  at 
a  look  from  me,  only  to  get  laughed 
at  for  his  pains.  A  strange  world !  I 
say  to  myself.  "  As  it  was  in  the 
beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall 
be !  "  sings  the  choir,  and  Miss 
Rogers'  clear  voice  lingers  in  the 
"  Amen." 

As  I  walk  the  deck  with  the  Baron 
that  evening    he  tells  me  about  his 
lovely  sister,   "  Alvida,"   and  about 
Peruvian  customs. 

"  My  sister  ees  dthe  most  beauti 
ful  voman  in  Peru;  she  haf  many 
suitors,  but  she  ees  nefer  allow  to  see 
dthem  except  when  dthe  family  air 


B 


. 


, 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

vidth  her.  It  ees  not  like  your  coun 
try;  a  man  can  nefer  know  dthe 
voman  he  loaf  till  he  marry  her." 

"  Very  stupid  custom,"  I  say.  "*I 
wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  such  love. 
You  could  only  care  for  the  face  or 
the  fortune  of  a  woman  so  hemmed 
about.  What  could  you  know  of 
the  character,  of  the  real  individual, 
that  after  all  is  the  only  safe  thing 
to  pin  one's  faith  to." 

"  I  like  your  customs  better  in 
zome  dthings,  but  it  makes  you 
vomans  too  clevair;  you  know  men 
better  dthan  ve  know  you." 

'  You  have  the  same  opportuni 
ties.  It's  not  our  fault  if  you  don't 
profit  by  them." 

"  You  tell  me  yourself,"  he  goes 


El 


SL 


Baron   is    Crazy   with   Madness 

on,  unheeding,  "  you  haf  many  gude 
friends  among  your  fadther's  and 
brodthers'  acquaintances;  dthat  make 
you  care  so  leedle  for  men." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it  I  "  I  laugh.  "  On 
the  contrary,  it  has  so  accustomed  me 
to  their  friendship  I  would  find  life 
utterly  unendurable  without  it." 

"  I  vill  make  you  fery  angry  pair- 
haps,  but  I  have  deescovair  you  like 
me  leedle  more  dthan  a  friend." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  often  flattering  to 
a  man's  vanity  to  have  a  fancy  like 
that,"  I  say  coolly,  but  I  am  con 
scious  of  a  twinge;  what  if  I  do  like 
him  more  than  I  want  to  think? 

"  It  ees  not  fancy,  Senorita ;  you 
do  not  know  yourself  you  care,  but 
you  do." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"Nonsense;  I  know  all  about  it. 
I'm  not  a  sentimental  person  and  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  in  plain  Eng 
lish  I  like  you.  I  must  like  you 
rather  more  than  usual,  or  I  wouldn't 
see  so  much  of  you."  By  this  time 
we  are  away  from  the  rest  of  the 
passengers,  down  by  the  smokestack. 
"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  known  you  for 
years!  "  I  end  with  a  sense  of  hav 
ing  turned  the  tide  of  sentiment  by  a 
little  frank  speaking,  and  feel  rather 
proud  of  myself. 

"  Senorita,"  he  clasps  his  hand 
over  mine  and  speaks  hurriedly,  "  I 
know  you  loaf  me;  tell  me  so." 

Oddly  enough,  I  feel  no  indig 
nation,  but  I  open  my  lips  for  a  de 
nial. 


Baron   is   Crazy   'with   Madness 

"  If  you  tell  me  not,"  he  says  ex 
citedly,  laying  one  hand  on  the  rail 
and  looking  greatly  wrought-up, 
tragic  and  comical  all  at  once,  "  if 
you  tell  me  not,"  he  repeats,  rais 
ing  his  voice,  "  I  yump  in  dthe 
vater." 

I  tighten  my  hold  on  his  arm,  try 
ing  not  to  let  him  see  how  much  I 
want  to  laugh. 

"  Of  course,  one  loves  one's 
friends;  don't  be  silly." 

A  quick  light  leaps  into  the  dark 
eyes.  I  am  reproached  and  vaguely 
uneasy  at  the  sight  of  his  gladness. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  Mrs.  Steele; 
she  doesn't  like  me  to  leave  her  so 
long."  I  turn  away  and  like  a  flash 
He  draws 


my 


my 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

through  his  arm,  holding  it  against 
his  heart.  I  can  feel  the  great  leaps 
under  the  yachtman's  gay  jacket. 

"  Ah!  "  sighs  the  wearer,  u  I  feel 
suffocate  on  dthis  boat — it  ees  so 
small,  people  eferywhere  and  you  and 
I  so  leedle  alone.  Ah,  ve  vill  soon 
be  at  San  Jose !  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  will  mend 
matters."  I  am  anxious  to  see  what 
he  has  in  mind. 

"  Madame  Steele  vant  to  go  to 
Guatemala." 

"  Yes,  but  so  do  most  of  the  other 
passengers." 

"  From  San  Jose  to  Guatemala  ees 
seventy  mile,  and  dthe  Paris  of  Cen 
tral  America  ees  zomething  more 
large  dthan  dthis  San  Miguel. 


Baron    is    Crazy   with   Madness 


so 


Much  can  happen  before  ve  come 
back." 

We  join  Mrs.  Steele  and  talk  over 
our  plan. 

The  next  day  we  arrive  at  Cham- 
perico,  but  no  one  goes  ashore;  we 
stay  so  short  a  time. 

The  deck  party  breaks  up  early 
that  night,  everyone  anxious  to  be 
ready  for  the  six  o'clock  breakfast 
call  next  morning. 

"  To-morrow  ve  air  at  San  Jose  de 
Guatemala,  and  much  can  happen  be 
fore  ve  see  San  Miguel  again."  The 
Baron  takes  my  hand  at  the  saloon 
door  as  I  say  good-night. 

"  That's  the  second  time  youVe 
made  that  ominous  remark,  Baron 
de  Bach.  What  do  you  mean?  " 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"Baron  de  Bach!"  he  echoes. 
"  My  name  ees  c  Guillermo,'  Blanca." 

Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  so  fa 
miliar  or  significant  as  if  he  said 
"  Blanche." 

"  What  do  you  think  will  happen 
to  us  in  Guatemala,  Guillermo  ?  " 

"Blanca  vill  see;"  he  lifts  the 
hand  with  the  rosary  falling  about  it 
to  his  lips  and  kisses  the  crucifix. 

"  Good-night,  Guillermo." 

"  Good-night,  Blanca." 

By  half-past  seven  the  next  morn 
ing  all  who  purpose  going  ashore 
are  standing  on  the  lower  deck  of  the 
San  Miguel,  wondering  how  they  are 
to  get  from  the  steamer  to  the  clumsy 
"  lighter  "  or  freight  boat  that  the 
great  breakers  are  tossing  about  be- 


Baron    is    Crazy   with   Madness 

low,  and  which  is  reported  to  be  our 
sole  means  of  making  the  shore. 

"  The  passengers  are  hauled  up 
and  down  in  a  big  barrel,"  says  the 
Captain,  who  has  come  from  the 
bridge  to  receive  some  official  from 
the  settlement.  '  You're  not  going 
ashore,  Mrs.  Steele !  "  He  fixes  a 
look  of  astonishment  on  my  friend  in 
her  travelling  dress. 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

"  Why,  there's  nothing  to  see  but 
huts  and  sand-piles." 

"  Ve  go  to  Guatemala,"  says  the 
Baron,  giving  our  wraps  to  the 
Chinese  porter. 

"  You  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 
The  brusque  Captain  is  nothing  if 
not  unceremonious.  "  We'll  have 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


this  Hamburg  cargo  loaded  in  a  day, 
and  you  can't  go  and  get  back  in 
time ;  and  I  won't  wait — I  won't  wait 
a  second  for  anyone  mad  enough  to 
go  to  Guatemala!  You'll  have  to 
give  it  up,"  he  says  to  Mrs.  Steele. 

There  is  a  chorus  of  disappoint 
ment  from  the  assembled  crowd,  but 
Mrs.  Steele,  with  evident  reluctance, 
says: 

"  Of  course,  it  would  never  do  to 
be  left  behind;  there's  yellow  fever 
in  all  these  ports,  I'm  told." 

"  Place  is  full  of  it — stay  on  the 
ship  like  sensible  people.  There's 
nothing  worth  seeing  in  Guatemala. 
I  hate  to  be  bothered  with  passen 
gers  going  off — "  and  the  Captain 
walks  to  the  railing  to  wave  his  hand 


Baron    is    Crazy    with    Madness 

with  stiff  pomposity  to  a   Mexican 
who  sits  in  the  lighter. 

*  You     air    meestake,    Captain, 
says  the  Baron  de  Bach;  "  all  dthose 
vorkmen  say  it  vill  be  two  days  load 
ing  dthis  cafe." 

The  Captain,  never  very  good- 
tempered  at  the  best  of  times,  is  es 
pecially  peppery  to-day. 

"  Are  you  runnin'  this  ship,  young 
man,  or  am  I?  "  He  seems  to  think 
he  has  made  a  forcible  and  irrefut 
able  rejoinder  and  turns  away  like 
one  who  has  settled  something  for 
ever. 

"  I  vill  spik  vidth  you  inside." 
The  Baron  sets  down  his  small  valise 
and  follows  the  apparently  unheeding 
Captain  into  the  saloon.  We  stand 


B 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


undecided,  looking  down  at  the 
lighter  shifting  about  in  the  break 
ers,  and  watching  a  stout  Mexican 
get  into  a  huge  barrel  that  has  one 
side  cut  down  and  a  seat  fitted  in — a 
rope  with  huge  iron  hook  attached 
is  lowered  from  a  pulley  on  the 
steamer,  and  the  barrel  full  of  San 
Jose  official  is  lifted  into  the  air. 
The  barrel  twirls  about,  the  official 
puts  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  and  in  a 
moment  he  is  landed  like  a  mam 
moth  fish  on  the  deck  of  the  San 
Miguel. 

We  hear  the  voices  in  the  saloon 
rising  with  anger.  Mrs.  Steele  looks 
apprehensive  and  makes  a  step  to 
wards  the  door.  Out  strides  the 
Baron,  looking  hot  and  excited. 


Baron   is   Crazy   with   Madness 

"  Ladies,  ve  vill  go.  I  promise 
you  ve  vill  be  back  in  time." 

Already  the  crowd  is  lessened  and 
some  have  given  up  going  even  to 
San  Jose,  and  several  have  made  the 
trip  in  the  barrel  and  are  safely 
landed  in  the  lighter. 

"  I  think  we  won't  run  any  risk," 
says  Mrs.  Steele  gently,  "  though  we 
can  go  to  San  Jose,  of  course." 

"  Madame,  I  do  assure  you,"  and 
the  Baron  is  most  emphatic,  "  if  you 
vill  trust  to  go  vidth  me  I  see  dthat 
you  come  safe  back  before  San 
Miguel  sails." 

The  second  mate  comes  up  with 
an  amused  look. 

1  You  ladies  jest  go  'long;  th' 
Cap'n's  alwus  like  that;  nobuddy 


J3L 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

minds.  We  can't  get  away  under 
two  days,  and  he  knows  it.  We  ain't 
'lowed  to  leave  under  forty-eight 
hours  on  'count  o'  passengers  from 
the  coast." 

That  settles  it,  and  each  in  turn 
we  go  spinning  down  in  the  barrel 
and  sit  on  piles  of  freight  in  the  un 
steady  lighter.  The  Mexican  oars 
men  stand  up  and  propel  the  boat 
through  the  surf  with  long  oars.  It 
is  rougher  than  it  looks,  and  I  suffer 
my  first  touch  of  sea-sickness.  We 
understand  why  we  are  anchored  so 
far  away,  and  why  the  huge  iron 
pier  running  out  from  San  Jose  ex 
tends  such  a  distance  seawards.  I 
am  quite  faint  and  miserable  when 
we  reach  the  landing.  The  Baron  is 


Baron    is    Crazy   'with   Madness 

still  so  consumed  with  rage  at  the 
Captain's  "  interference,"  he  has  no 
eyes,  happily,  for  my  pitiable- con 
dition.  I  look  about  disconsolately 
for  the  barrel  elevator,  for  the  pier 
is  far  above  our  heads,  and  the  great 
waves  are  dashing  us  against  its  iron 
side.  To  Mrs.  Steele's  horror,  we 
perceive  a  sort  of  iron  cage  is  em 
ployed  in  the  process  of  elevation  at 
this  end  of  the  journey,  and  soon  we 
three  are  swinging  in  mid-air  between 
the  angry  waves  and  the  iron  pier. 

"  Oh !  "  I  say,  breathlessly,  clutch 
ing  at  Mrs.  Steele,  "  what  would 
Uncle  John  say  if  he  could  see  me 
now?" 

"  He  would  probably  advise  you 
to  follow  his  example  and  make  your 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

observations  from  the  outside  of  the 
cage." 

I've  observed  that  Mrs.  Steele  is 
sometimes  lacking  in  sympathy  at 
trying  moments. 

At  last  we  are  landed,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  long  pier  we  find  a  nar 
row-gauge  train — strange,  primitive 
little  cars  and  very  dirty  withal.  We 
make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as 
possible — opening  the  windows  and 
each  one  occupying  a  double  seat,  for 
the  carriage  is  only  half  full. 

"  It's  not  more  than  seventy  miles, 
I  believe,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  "  but  it 
takes  five  hours  to  get  there;  it's  an 
up-hill  grade  all  the  way." 

"  Five  hours ! "  I  repeat,  dis 
mayed.  "  Oh,  why  did  no  one  tell 


B 


Baron    is    Crazy    with    Madness 

me  that  before?     I  had  scarcely  a 
mouthful  of  breakfast." 

"We  haf  another  breakfast  at 
Escuintla,  mees,  a  gude  one,"  says 
Senor  Noma,  passing  through  our 
coach  to  the  smoking-car.  I  am  con 
soled  and  full  of  interest  at  the  pros 
pect,  as  the  dingy  little  train  moves 
off.  Mrs.  Steele  and  I  are  facing 
each  other,  while  the  Baron  sits  be 
hind  me  and  points  out  the  most 
noteworthy  features  of  this  notable 
expedition.  We  are  in  the  tropics 
truly;  the  heat  is  overpowering,  and 
the  Baron  leans  over  the  back  of  my 
seat  with  my  rough  Mazatlan  fan, 
and  uses  it  with  a  generous  devotion 
that  tires  him  and  does  not  cool  me. 

"  Do  fan  yourself  a  little,"  I  say. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  YouVe  been  the  colour  of  a  lobster 
ever  since  your  interview  with  the 
Captain. 

The  Peruvian's  brows  contract — » 
he  looks  ferocious  in  the  extreme — 
and  I  am  a  little  sorry  I  mentioned 
the  Captain. 

"  Dthat  Capitan  ees  von  fool! 
He  know  not  how  to  treat  a  zhentle- 
man.  I  tell  him  I  make  a  proces  to 
dthe  company  and  get  him  repri 
mand  for  how  he  spik  to  me." 

"Why,  what  did  he  say?"  asks 
Mrs.  Steele. 

"  He  tell  me  I  act  like  /  vas  Cap 
itan,  dthen  he  call  me  '  damn.'  I  tell 
him  he  vas  a  coachman !  " 

The  Baron  looks  surprised  and  a 
bit  resentful  at  our  laughter. 


889 


Baron    is    Crazy   'with   Madness 

"  What  made  you  call  him  a 
coachman  ?  "  Mrs.  Steele  is  the  first, 
as  usual,  to  pull  a  straight  face. 

"  Madame  forget  I  know  not  all 
Eenglish  vords.  I  could  dthink  of 
nodthing  more  vorse — I  vas  zo 
crazy  vidth  madness." 


Gbapter 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    BARANCA 

EE  the  banana  plan 
tations!  Oh,  those 
date-palms!"  Mrs. 
Steele  leans  out 
of  her  window, 
full  of  delight  at 
the  curious  pan 
orama  moving  past. 

"  Mrs.  Steele!  "  I  bend  over  and 
take  her  hand.  "  I  hope  all  this  will 
never  grow  dim.  I  want  to  remem 
ber  it  all  my  life." 

"  You  will,  dear."  She  turns 
away  absorbed,  eager  to  lose  nothing 
of  this  new  phase  of  Nature. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Haf  no  fear — you  vill  not  for 
get — Blanca." 

The  low  voice  over  my  shoulder 
is  an  interruption;  to  enjoy  the  gift 
of  sight  is  all-sufficient  for  a  time. 
With  happy  disregard  of  the  man  at 
my  back,  I  take  in  the  changeful, 
fantastic  vision. 

The  adobe  houses  standing  in 
orange  groves,  the  long  stretches 
of  jungle,  wild  tangles  of  rank 
growth,  cactus,  giant  ferns,  brake 
and  netted  vines;  birds  of  gorgeous 
plumage  and  discordant  note,  alli 
gators  basking  on  the  sunny  bank 
of  a  sluggish  stream,  half-dressed 
natives  at  work  in  coffee  fincas,  sugar 
cane  and  cotton  fields ;  nude  children 
standing  in  the  doorways  of  palm- 


The  Baranca 

thatched  huts,  staring  with  still  and 
stupid  wonder  at  the  train,  and  look 
ing  like  inanimate  clay  models  of  a 
fairer,  finer  race  to  come.  It  is  all 
like  a  curious  dream  from  which  we 
waken  at  Escuintla  to  take  our  eleven 
o'clock  breakfast.  This  place  has 
been  partially  destroyed  by  earth 
quake,  and  Mrs.  Steele  urges  de 
spatch  with  breakfast  that  we  may 
see  what  is  left.  A  very  tolerable 
meal  is  served  in  the  wide,  open  ve 
randa  of  the  station. 

"  What  a  nice  little  spoon !  "  Mrs. 
Steele  remarks,  as  we  sit  down,  notic 
ing  one  of  tortoise  shell  quaintly 
carved. 

t?"  is  all  the  Baron 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


is    aghast.      "  I    pay 
says     unconcernedly. 


Mrs.  Steele 
dthem,"  he 
"Haf  leedle  salade?" 

I  have  finished  first  and  go  out  to 
the  platform.  Groups  of  natives  are 
gathered  about,  carrying  on  their 
heads  round  shallow  baskets  like 
trays  displaying  fruit,  eggs  and  water 
for  sale.  These  people  seem  very 
different  from  the  Mexican  Indians. 
They  are  blacker,  their  faces  are 
more  flat  and  stupid,  and  the 
women's  dress  is  a  straight  piece  of 
gay  cotton  cloth  wound  round  the 
lower  half  of  the  body  and  secured 
at  the  waist  with  a  scarf  tied  over. 
The  only  other  encumbrance  is  a  thin 
white  cotton  sacque,  short  and  loose. 
The  women  immediately  attack  me 


IKS 


The  Baranca 

with  vociferous  gibberish,  offering 
me  their  wares.  Mrs.  Steele  sends 
the  Baron  out  to  look  after  me,  and 
when  he  has  bought  a  basket  full  of 
pineapples,  sappadillos,  mangoes  and 
grenadillas,  he  proposes  a  little  walk 
up  the  road.  We  have  twenty  min 
utes  yet,  he  says,  and  Mrs.  Steele  is 
stopping  to  buy  some  grass  baskets 
and  fans.  We  walk  up  the  dusty 
little  highway,  and  the  burning  sun 
beats  down  strong  and  hot  in  our  un 
accustomed  faces. 

"  How  can  people  endure  it?"  I 
marvel,  wiping  away  great  drops  of 
moisture. 

"  See  dthat  big  house  all  come 
down?  Dthat  ees  eardthquake," 
explains  my  escort. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  How  dreadful !  Look  at  the 
thatch  roofs  of  those  queer  little  huts 
— it  makes  me  think  of  peaked  Rob 
inson  Crusoe  hats.  Just  see  how 
they're  pulled  far  down  over  the  sun 
burnt  wall  as  if  to  shade  their  eyes 
from  the  scorching  sun." 

"Robeen  Crusa?"  The  Baron 
looks  puzzled.  "  I  know  not  dthat 
kind  of  hat.  Ees  it  like  vhat  you  tell 
me  about  vhen  I  first  see  you — dthat 
4  Robeen  Hood'?" 

I  stand  still  in  the  quiet  street 
and  wake  a  far-off  echo  with  my 
laughter.  The  Peruvian  gets  red 
in  the  face  and  begins  to  look  of 
fended. 

"Please  don't  mind  me;  I  think 
you've  said  something  a  little  '  kom- 


TA^  Baranca 

isch ' — but  perhaps  IVe  got  a  sun 
stroke  and  it  acts  like  laughing  gas. 
Don't  be  cross,  Guillermo."  I  take 
his  arm  and  notice  covertly  that  he  is 
mollified. 

"  Blanca,"  Ke  says,  with  a  half 
smile,  "  dthat  adobe  house  vidth 
vines  look  cool — suppose  I  buy  dthat 
and  ve  stay  here  leedle  vhile." 

I  follow  his  eyes. 

"That  mansion  would  hardly 
hold  our  party;  it  doesn't  look 
as  if  it  boasted  more  than  two 
rooms." 

"  Dthat  vould  be  enough.  Ma 
dame  Steele  vish  much  to  see 
Guatemala;  she  go  on  and  ve  miss 
dthat  train." 

"Brilliant    scheme!"    I    admit, 


B 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"but "       A     shrill     blast     cuts 

through    the    air.      "  Heavens    and 
earth !  that's  the  whistle !  " 

Like  one  possessed  I  tear  down 
the  road  with  never  a  glance  behind 
— it  seems  miles  to  the  station,  and 
as  I  come  near  I  see  the  train  is  mov 
ing.  I  make  a  rush  for  the  rear  plat 
form.  Voices  behind  scream  re 
proof  and  warning,  but  I  never  look 
back;  I  grasp  the  iron  railing  and 
am  whisked  off  my  feet  by  the 
motion.  With  a  desperate  wrench  I 
pull  myself  up  the  steps  and  steady 
my  trembling  body  against  the  door 
of  the  baggage  car.  I  look  in.  It's 
locked,  and  no  one  is  there. 
"  Stupid  idiot!  "  I  mutter.  "  That 
mooning  Baron  hasn't  the  smallest 


B 


The  Baranca 

grain  of  sense — saying  we  had  twenty 
minutes!  Well,  he's  left  anyhow — 
serves  him  right!"  And  then  I 
cool  down  and  reflect  that  going  to 
Guatemala  without  the  Baron  may 
not  be  so  amusing.  I  shake  the  door 
of  the  car,  but  no  one  hears,  and  I 
notice  the  train  is  slowing.  "  Mrs. 
Steele  thinks  I'm  left  and  has  made 
them  come  back — well,  I'm  not 
sorry,  for  now  we'll  get  that  stu 
pid  Baron  again.  Yes,  just  as  I 

thought "  as  we  begin  to  move 

back  to  Escuintla — "  there's  the 
vine-covered  hut  that  idiotic  person 
proposed  buying — here's  the  station 
and  .  .  .  who's  that?"  Before  my 
astonished  eyes  stand  Mrs.  Steele 
and  the  Baron  de  Bach,  looking  anx- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

iously  for  the  advancing  train.     As 
it  stops  they  run  forward. 

"  My  dear,  don't  you  ever  do  such 
a  foolhardy  thing  again,"  begins 
Mrs.  Steele,  severely. 

"  If  I  had  known  vhat  you  vould 
do,  I  vould  haf  hold  you  till— 

"The  train  doesn't  go  for  ten 
minutes,"  Mrs.  Steele  interrupts;  "  it 
was  only  shifting  to  another  track. 
You  might  have  known  the  Baron 
would  watch  the  time." 

Mrs.  Steele  looks  weak  with  ap 
prehension — it  is  only  when  she  ha 
been  alarmed  that  I  realise  how  del 
icate  she  is. 

u  I'm  so  sorry  you  were  fright 
ened,"  I  say,  feeling  too  utterly  re 
duced  to  rebuff  the  Baron  for  lifting 


me  down  from  the  platform  as  he 
would  have  taken  a  child. 

"  Come,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  "  we 
will  get  our  old  places." 

An  Indian  woman  comes  to  the 
window  after  we  are  seated  and  offers 
a  paraquito  for  sale.  The  Baron 
buys  it  and  shows  me  how  to  hold  it 
on  my  fan  and  let  it  take  a  piece  of 
sappadilla  from  my  teeth.  This  per 
formance  somewhat  restores  my 
spirits,  and  the  incident  of  catching 
the  wrong  train  at  the  risk  of  life 
and  limb  fades  before  the  crowding 
interests  of  an  eventful  day.  It 
seems  hotter  and  closer  in  the 
cramped  little  car.  Mrs.  Steele 
grows  faint. 

"  Come  in  dthe  air."    The  Baron 


ms. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

and  I  support  her  to  the  door.  She 
recovers  a  little  and  the  Peruvian  re 
turns  for  his  valise.  He  brings  out 
a  silver  travelling  flask  and  sprinkles 
a  white  silk  handkerchief  with  deli 
cious  eau  de  Cologne  and  gives  it  to 
Mrs.  Steele.  I  can  see  it  refreshes 
her,  and  I  throw  the  Peruvian  a 
grateful  glance  for  his  thoughtful- 
ness.  From  the  platform  we  have  a 
far  finer  view  of  the  country.  The 
rugged  wilderness  of  the  Cordilleras 
hems  us  in  on  every  side. 

"  Dthose  air  yust  the  zame  moun 
tains  I  look  on  from  my  home  in 
Peru;  it  ees  von  chain  from  Tierra 
del  Fuego  to  Mexico,"  and  a  look  oi 
welcome  comes  into  the  handsome 
face.  "  It  ees  four  years  since  I  zee 


The  Baranca 

dthose  Cordilleras.  I  am  glad  I  am 
near  dthem  vonce  more.  Ah!  "  he 
exclaims,  as  we  break  through  the 
close  circle  of  the  mountains,  and, 
coming  out  on  a  wide  plateau,  a 
shining  sheet  of  water  bursts  on 
our  delighted  vision.  "  Lake  Ama- 
titlan !  " 

The  world  up  here  is  wild  and 
silent;  one  feels  a  breathless  sense 
of  discovery  and  is  vaguely  glad 
there  is  no  trace  of  man.  No  canoe 
rises  the  waves  save  the  grey  feather- 
boat  of  the  wild  duck,  and  the  majes 
tic  circling  hawk  is  the  only  fisher 
man. 

"  It  was  like  this  when  Cortes  saw 
it!  "  I  say. 

"  It  was  like  this  when  God  made 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

it!"    says    Mrs.    Steele,    under   her 
breath. 

The  train  stops  by  the  lake  and 
we  gather  wild  Lantana  and  many  a 
new  flower  during  the  few  minutes' 
stay.  I  rush  into  a  thicket  after  a 
red  lily,  and  come  out  a  mass  of 
thorns  and  Spanish  needles.  When 
the  train  starts  Mrs.  Steele  is  tired, 
and  goes  inside  to  rest,  but  the  Baron 
and  I  still  stay  on  the  platform.  He 
sits  on  the  top  step  and  laboriously 
picks  the  needles  off  my  dress. 

"You  zee  dthat  smoke,  Blanca? 
Dthat  ees  a  volcano." 

"  Oh,  how  delightful!  but  there's 
no  fire!" 

No,  not  at  present!  " 

It's  very  disappointing,"  I  say, 


u 


178 


The  Baranca 

"  and  the  geography  pictures  are  all 
wrong.  They  show  a  great  burst  of 
smoke  and  flame,  and  huge  rocks 
shooting  up  out  of  the  crater.  I  sup 
posed  a  volcano  was  a  sort  of  per 
petual  *  Fourth  of  July/  ' 

"  Fourdth  of  Yuly!  how  mean 
you?" 

"  Oh,  fireworks  and  explosions  1 
but  that  little  white  funnel  of  steam 
— well,  it's  a  disappointment  I  " 

u  You  vill  zee  dthree  volcano  near 
Guatemala ;  dthey  air  dthe  '  spirits  ' 
of  dthe  place — call  in  Eenglish 
'  Air,'  '  Fire  '  and  *  Vater.'  Zee  on 
dthis  leedle  coin  dthey  haf  all  dthree 
mountains  on  dthe  back." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with 
your  hands?  "  I  say,  taking  the  coin. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"All  dthose  burrs  on  your  dress 
make  bleed,"  he  says,  looking  a  bit 
ruefully  at  his  finger-tips,  sore  and 
red,  and  one  stained  a  little  where 
some  obstinate  briar  or  needle  has 
drawn  the  blood. 

"Oh!  what  a  shame!"  I  take 
the  shapely  hand  in  mine  and  look 
compassionately  at  the  hurt  fin 
gers. 

"  I  feel  it  not,  Blanca,  vhen  you 
hold  it  so!" 

I  drop  the  hand,  instinctively  steel 
ing  myself  against  all  show  of  sym 
pathy  with  this  boyish  sentimental- 
ism. 

u  It   should  teach  you   a   lesson. 


The  Baranca 

than  most  women's — such  hands  are 
good  for  nothing." 

"  I  vill  show  you  you  can  be  mees- 
take."  His  face  is  quite  changed, 
and  there's  something  dimly  threat 
ening  in  the  deep  eyes. 

"When  will  you  show  me?"  I 
say,  affecting  a  carelessness  I  do  not 
quite  feel. 

"  Perhaps  in  Guatemala."  I 
leave  that  side  of  the  platform  and 
lean  out  over  the  other.  "  Come 
back,  Blanca;  it  ees  not  zafe!  " 

His  tone  is  entirely  too  dictatorial. 
I  close  my  hand  firmly  round  the  iron 
rail  and  lean  out  further  still.  At 
that  instant,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
the  train  encounters  some  obstruction 
on  the  track,  something  is  struck,  and 


El 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

there  is  a  jolt  and  concussion.  Be 
fore  I  have  time  to  recover  myself  I 
feel  my  hand  wrested  from  the  iron, 
and  a  powerful  arm  is  closed  around 
me,  but  instead  of  being  drawn  back, 
I  am  held  out  in  the  very  position  I 
myself  had  taken.  Bewildered  and 
frightened,  I  give  one  scream  "  on 
account "  and  turn  my  head  with  an 
endeavour  to  grasp  the  horrible 
situation.  The  Peruvian  is  holding 
to  the  rail  with  one  hand  and  has  me 
grasped  under  one  arm  as  an  incon 
siderate  child  holds  a  kitten. 

"Let  me  go!" 

"  I  ask  you  before  dthat  you  lean 
not  out — but  if  you  vill,  I  must  zee 
dthat  you  fall  not." 

"  I  tell  you  I'll  come  back,  let  me 


& 


The  Baranca 

go!  "  and  I  glance  out  shudderingly. 
We  have  passed  over  the  obstruction, 
whatever  it  was,  and  are  running 
along  the  side  of  a  steep  descent. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  dthink  my  hands 
zo  weak,  for  if  dthey  fail  ve  bodth 
go  down." 

"  Oh,  please,  please !  "  I  gasp. 

"  Now  ve  come  to  a  baranca.  I 
am  curious  to  zee  vill  you  like  a 
'  baranca/  " 

The  wretch  speaks  as  calmly  as  if 
we  sat  in  a  Pullman  car.  Through 
all  my  fright  and  indignation  I  won 
der  what  on  earth's  a  "  baranca  " — 
and  forget  to  scream. 

"  Now,  Senorita,  if  I  hold  you  not 
zo  far  out  as  you  like,  tell  me." 

I  look  down,  and  under  my  very 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


h 


eyes  the  solid  ground  ends,  my  hor 
rified  vision  drops  hundreds  of  feet 
to  the  bottom  of  a  mighty  gash  in 
Cordilleras'  flank,  and  for  one  sick 
instant  I  shut  my  eyes. 

"  How  like  you  a  baranca?  " 
Is  it  the  wind  jeering  after  me  as 
I  drop  down,  down,  down?  With  a 
supreme  effort  I  turn  to  see  if  that 
face  is  behind  me,  and  behold!  the 
Peruvian  calmly  meets  my  eyes  with 
actually  a  smile  on  his  lips.  He  is 
still  holding  me  jauntily  over  the 
platform  steps,  and  it  was  only  my 
giddy  fancy  that  fell  so  far. 

We  have  passed  the  gorge,  and, 
looking  back,  I  see  the  "narrow- 
gauge  "  track  lying  across  the  chasm 
like  a  herring-bone  over  a  hole. 


The  Baranca 


1  Ve  haf  more  barancas  if  you  like 
dthem." 

"  Oh,  Guillermo,"  I  say,  "  please 
let  me  go  in !  " 

"  Not  for  my  sake !  I  can  hold 
you  here  von  hour  vidth  dthese 
'  gude-for-nodthing '  hands." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  it;  you're  the 
strongest  man  I  ever  knew,  but  I 
don't  like  barancas.  Please,  please, 
Guillermo!" 

He  draws  me  back  on  the  plat 
form,  and  without  asking  my  par 
don  or  looking  the  least  bit  penitent, 
he  opens  the  door  for  me  to  go  in 
side. 

Mrs.  Steele  looks  away  from  her 
window  as  we  take  our  former  seats. 

"  How      deliciously      cool      it's 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

grown/'  she  says.  "  What  makes 
you  so  white,  Blanche  ?" 

"  Vas  it  not  for  dthat  she  ees  call 
Blanca?" 

"What  is  it,  child?  Are  you 
faint?" 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  I  answer,  wonder 
ing  whether  I  had  better  tell  how 
that  Peruvian  monster  has  been  be 
having. 

"  That's  strange !  It's  quite  unlike 
you  to  be  faint.  Baron,  will  you  mix 
a  little  of  this  brandy  with  some 
water?  That  will  make  her  feel 
better." 

Again  he  takes  out  his  traveller's 
cup  of  silver.  Calling  the  negro  con 
ductor,  he  tells  him  to  bring  some 
"  agua." 


*p* 


The  Baranca 

"  He's  afraid  to  leave  us,"  I  think 
indignantly;  "  he  doesn't  want  me 
to  tell  Mrs.  Steele." 

"  Did  you  notice  that  great  cleft 
in  the  mountain  we  went  over? " 
asks  the  latter,  fanning  me  gently. 

"  Yes,  dthat  ees  call  *  baranca.' 
Senorita  seem  not  to  like  it." 

"  Neither  would  Mrs.  Steele  i'f  she 
had " 

"She  nefer  vould!  Madame 
Steele  ees  a  too  vise  voman.  Vhat 
you  dthink,  Madame?  Senorita  in- 
seest  to  lean  out  far  ofer  dthose 
steps;  I  beg  her  not,  but—  '  he 
ends  with  a  modest  gesture  of  incom 
petence. 

"  And  you,"  I  begin,  with  a 
sudden  determination  to  unmask 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

his     villainy,     "  you     rushed     over 
and — 

"  And  hold  you  zo  dthat  you  fall 
not.  Madame  Steele,  desairve  I  not 
dthanks?" 

Ah!  yes,  Baron.  You  are  cer 
tainly  very  kind  and  watchful;  but, 
Blanche,  if  you  don't  care  for  your 
self,  you  ought  to  consider  other  peo 
ple.  It's  a  terrible  responsibility  to 
travel  with  such  a  foolhardy  person. 
I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  if  you've  been 
a  little  frightened.  Take  the  brandy^ 
dear." 

My  good  friend  is  never  severe 
long.  The  Baron  holds  the  silver 
cup  to  my  lips,  and  I  shut  out  the 
sight  of  him — with  closed  eyes  I 
drink  the  mixture  obediently. 


The  Baranca 

I  lean  my  head  against  the  win 
dow,  and  the  voices  of  my  friend  and 
the  Baron  grow  less  and  less  distinct. 
The  next  thing  I  know  Mrs.  Steele 
is  saying,  "  Is  that  Guatemala  ?  "  I 
rouse  myself  and  look  out.  A  white 
city  on  a  wide  plateau.  Is  this  the 
"  Paris  of  Central  America,"  with 
its  70,000  inhabitants?  Mrs.  Steele 
is  met  in  the  depot  by  some  friends, 
Californians,  who  live  here  part  of 
the  year.  We  promise  to  dine  with 
them,  and  the  Baron  comes  back 
from  his  search  for  a  carriage,  say 
ing  one  will  be  here  presently. 

"  Vhile  Madame  Steele  talks  vidth 
her  friends,  vill  you  come  zee  dthe 
Trocadero,  vhere  dthey  haf  bull 
fights?" 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Oh,  I  dthought  you  vould  like." 

"Where  is  it?" 

4  Yust  ofer  dthere,  dthree  steps — 
dthat  round  house." 

"  I'd  better  see  it  perhaps  while  I 
have  time,"  I  think,  and  I  walk  to 
wards  the  circular  building  indicated. 
Baron  de  Bach  keeps  at  my  side.  He 
tries  the  door — shakes  it — but  it  is 
evidently  locked;  he  leans  down  and 
looks  through  the  keyhole. 

"  Oh,  you  can  zee  qvite  veil 
dthrough  here." 

I  put  my  eye  to  the  little  opening 
and  can  dimly  descry  an  open  arena 
with  seats  in  tiers  opposite. 

"  Dthey  zay  dthey  haf  a  bull-fight 
Dthursday  " — the  Baron  is  reading 


The  Baranca 

the  Spanish  bill  posted  at  the  door. 
u  Ve  had  better  stay  and  let  you 
zee." 

"There's  the  carriage !"  I  ex 
claim,  and  we  hurry  back,  take  leave 
of  Mrs.  Steele's  friends  and  drive 
over  roughly  cobbled  streets  to  the 
Gran  Hotel.  Our  rooms  are  secured 
to  us  in  three  languages  by  the 
Baron;  he  scolds  the  proprietor  for 
delays  in  German,  conciliates  the 
wife  in  French,  and  gives  orders  to 
the  servant  of  this  polyglot  establish 
ment  in  Spanish.  Finally  we  are 
stowed  in  rooms  opening  on  the  wide 
veranda  that  encloses  the  patio.  A 
hasty  toilet  and  we  meet  the  Baron 
in  the  vestibule  downstairs.  We 
wander  about  the  crooked  streets 


E3 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

from  shop  to  shop,  getting  at  a 
jeweller's  some  ancient  coins,  unal 
loyed  gold  and  silver  rudely  stamped 
and  cut  out  in  irregular  shapes,  the 
only  currency  when  Central  Amer 
ica  was  a  Spanish  province.  We  are 
longest  in  the  great  market,  buying 
curious  pottery  from  the  Indians- 
calabash  cups,  brilliant  scrapes  of 
native  weaving  and  lovely  silk  re- 
bosas.  We  order  a  variety  of  fans 
—one  kind  is  of  braided  palm  with 
clumsy  handle  ending  in  a  rude 
brush.  An  Indian  girl  shows  me 
how  the  fan  is  used  to  make  the  fire 
burn  more  brightly,  and  the  brush 
to  sweep  the  hearth.  From  market 
into  the  main  Plaza,  and  then  to  the 
cool  shelter  of  the  Cathedral,  brings 


ret 


The  Baranca 

our  short  afternoon  to  an  end;  we 
must  hurry  back  to  our  dinner  ap 
pointment.  The  Baron  grumbles 
vigorously  when  he  discovers  he  was 
included  in  the  invitation,  and  that 
Mrs.  Steele  promised  to  bring  him. 

"  Really,  he  hasn't  seemed  like 
himself  all  this  afternoon,"  says  Mrs. 
Steele,  when  we  are  once  more  in  our 
rooms,  which  conveniently  adjoin. 

:t  No,  he  can  be  conspicuously  dis 
agreeable  when  he  likes."  I  have  in 
mind  the  "  baranca  "  episode. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  makes  him 
so  absent-minded  and  constrained, 
Blanche?" 

"  Simple  perversity,  very  likely." 
I  stand  in  the  communicating  door 
way,  brushing  a  jacket.  I  am  con- 


.0. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

scious  that  Mrs.  Steele  pauses  in  her 
toilet  and  looks  keenly  in  my  direc 
tion. 

"  I  still  like  the  Baron  extremely, 
but  I'm  glad  to  see  you  are  not  so  un 
sophisticated  or  so  unpractical  as  to 
be  captivated  by  a  pair  of  fine  eyes 
and  a  melodious  voice.  I  was  once 
uncomplimentary  enough  to  be  afraid 
of  the  effect  of  such  close  intercourse 
for  both  of  you.  You  two  are  cut 
out  to  make  each  other  happy  for  a 
few  weeks,  and  miserable  for  a  life 
time.  You  should  both  be  thankful 
that  your  acquaintance  is  to  be 
counted  by  pleasant  days  and  ended 
before  the  regretful  years  begin." 

"  Really,  I  don't  know  what  put 
all  that  in  your  head !  " 


"  Observation,  my  dear!  In  spite 
of  the  velvet  cloak  of  courtesy,  our 
Peruvian  is  a  born  tyrant,  and  you — 
forgive  me — but  you  know  you're 
the  very  child  of  caprice.  I  am  most 
thankful,  however,  that  you  are  not 
impressionable.  Otherwise  this  ex 
perience  might  leave  a  bitter  taste  in 
your  mouth." 

u.You  seem  content  with  my 
escape.  You  don't  feel  any  con 
cern  that  the  Baron  may  lack  the 
valuable  qualities  you  think  are 
my  safeguard?  Suppose,  just  for 
argument's  sake,  he  should  say  I 
had " 

"  Broken  his  heart?  Ah,  my  dear, 
he  has  probably  said  that  to  a  dozen. 
It's  a  tough  article,  the  masculine 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

heart,  and  the  kind  of  women  who 
strain  it  most  are " 

"  Bewildering  beauties,  such  as 
you  were  at  twenty!  And  I  may 
rest  in  my  defects  with  an  easy  con 
science.  Thank  you !  " 

"  That  was  not  what  I  was  going 
to  say." 

In  my  heart  I  knew  it  was  what 
she  was  thinking. 


Seben 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE     INCA     EYE 

AND  MRS.  DAL- 
TON  give  us  a 
beautiful  Spanish- 
French  dinner  in  a 
private  room  of  the 
Gran  Hotel  where 
they  live.  Mrs.  Dalton  is  palpably 
delighted  with  the  Baron  de  Bach. 
He  is  unusually  reserved,  but  grav 
ity  sits  well  on  him,  and,  as  I  see  him 
crossing  swords  with  this  clever 
woman  of  the  world,  I  find  my  ad 
miration  growing.  He  seems  not  to 
see  me  all  through  dinner,  and,  like 
the  stupid  young  person  I  am,  I  fall 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

to  regretting  that  by  the  side  of  our 
brilliant,  travelled  hostess  I  must 
seem  provincial  and  dull.  I  am  not 
sorry  when,  shortly  after  dinner, 
Mrs.  Steele,  regretting  we  have 
to  leave  so  early  the  following 
day,  remembers  a  friend  she  must 
see  that  night,  and  we  take  our 
leave. 

"  Senorita  look  fery  tire — she  bet 
ter  stay  in  dthe  hotel.  I  vill  escort 
you,  Madame,  vidth  plaisir." 

We  stop  a  moment  on  the  stairs. 

"  Oh,  no!  I  especially  want 
Blanche  to  see  the  interior  of  a  hand 
some  native  house.  You're  not  too 
tired,  are  you,  dear?" 

"  No,"  I  say,  "  I'll  go." 

"  She  vould  zay  dthat  if  she  die. 


311 


The  Inca  Eye 

You  stay  here,  Senorita;  Madame 
Steele  be  not  long." 

The  idea  flits  across  my  mind  he 
has  some  reason  of  his  own  for  not 
wanting  me  to  go;  but  I've  no  notion 
of  being  left  alone. 

"No,  I'll  go  with  you,  Mrs. 
Steele." 

"  After  I  escort  Madame,  I  go  to 
dthe  photographic  gallery;  I  buy 
you  all  dthose  pictures  ve  haf  not 
time  to  get  dthis  afternoon.  I  send 
dthem  to  your  room ;  you  vill  not  be 
lonely." 

"  Oh,  why  can't  we  all  go  to  the 
gallery?  I  do  so  want  a  collection 
of  views.  I  want  nothing  else  so 
much !  "  I  plead. 

It  ends  by  our  driving  to  Casa  47, 


R 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

in  a  wide  street  opposite  the  public 
gardens.  The  Baron  dismisses  the 
coachman,  telling  him  to  come  back 
in  a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  drop  the 
iron  knocker  on  the  massive  door. 
A  native  servant  draws  the  bolts,  and 
our  interpreter  asks  for  "  Senora 
Baldwin."  We  follow  the  pic 
turesque  little  maid  through  a  tiled 
vestibule  into  a  starlight  patio.  The 
usual  ground  veranda  encloses  this 
fragrant  court,  the  various  rooms 
opening  on  it. 

We  are  ushered  into  one  bril 
liantly  lit  and  luxuriously  furnished, 
and  the  hostess  and  her  sister  make 
us  welcome.  The  French  consul  is 
there  with  his  secretary,  and  the  con 
versation  is  mostly  in  their  tongue. 


The  Inca  Eye 

Mrs.  Baldwin  shows  us  an  album  of 
enchanting  views  of  Guatemala  and 
the  abandoned  city  of  Antigua,  so 
beautifully  situated  and  so  earth 
quake-cursed. 

"  More  than  ever,"  says  Mrs. 
Steele,  "  I  regret  we  did  not  omit 
something  else,  and  take  time  to  get 
photographs." 

"  It's  not  too  late,"  our  hostess 
says. 

"  Oh,  no,"  the  Baron  interposes. 
"  I  go  now  to  get  dthem.  I  vas 
dthinking  if  Madame  vould  like 
Senorita  to  choose  them." 

"  No ;  Blanche  does  seem  a  little 
tired.  I  couldn't  let  her  go.  I  think 
we  must  trust  your  taste,  Baron;  I 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

strength  for  any  more  exploring  to 
night." 

"  No,  indeed,  you  mustn't  go," 
says  Mrs.  Baldwin.  "  I've  some 
wonderful  antiquities  from  a  buried 
Aztec  city  to  show  you.  When  you 
finish  those  views"— she  glances  at 
me — "  you'll  find  us  in  the  next 
room.  I  won't  say  good-bye  to  you, 
Baron;  of  course,  you'll  be  back. 
Come,  Mrs.  Steele  "  —and  they  go 
into  an  adjoining  room. 

"  If  you  air  not  too  tire,  Senorita, 
you  better  come  to  dthe  gallery  and 
choose  dthe  pictures.  Dthe  Consul 
say  it  ees  near  here." 

"  Oh,  really?  Yes,  I'll  go;  I  know 
just  the  ones  Mrs.  Steele  wants. 
You  will  tell  her  where  we've  gone, 


The  Inca  Eye 

won't  you? — we  won't  be  long,"  I 
say  to  Mrs.  Baldwin's  young  sister, 
who  is  chattering  French  to  the  con 
sul. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers.  "  It's  my 
opinion  you  won't  find  the  gallery 
open  so  late  as  this;  but,  of  course, 
you  can  try." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  won't  be  shut. 
Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

The  small  servant  nodding  on  the 
veranda  takes  us  past  the  palm- 
shaded  patio,  and  through  the  dark 
vestibule. 

"Gracias!"  I  say  to  the  dusky 
little  servitor  as  the  huge  door 
opens. 

"Si!     Si!     Dthousand    thanks," 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

mutters  the  Baron  as  the  bolts  fall 
behind  us,  and  we  are  out  in  the 
moonlit  street.  He  draws  my  hand 
through  his  arm. 

"What  makes  your  heart  beat 
so?  "  I  say. 

"Come  on  the  right  side;"  he 
changes  me  quickly  to  the  other  arm, 
and  I  laugh  at  my  acuteness,  little 
dreaming  what  the  Baron's  well- 
disguised  excitement  foreboded.  We 
turn  down  a  narrow,  ill-lighted 
street. 

"  What  a  lovely  night!  It  makes 
one  feel  strangely,  doesn't  it,  to  be 
out  after  dark  in  a  foreign  city  that 
no  one  you  know  has  ever  visited, 
and  that  seemed  in  geography  days 
as  far  off  as  the  moon?  "  I  get  no 


B 


The  Inca  Eye 

answer  to  my  small  observations, 
and  we  walk  on.  "  The  gallery  isn't 
as  near  as  I  thought." 

"  It  ees  not  far,  Blanca;  you  air 
fery  lofely  in  dthe  moonlight." 

"  I'm  glad  to  know  what  is  re 
quired  to  make  me  lovely." 

"  You  air  alvays  '  wonderschon  ' 
to  me — but  you  look  too  clevair 
zometimes  in  dthe  day.  In  dthis 
moonlight  you  look  so  gentle — like 
a  leedle  child.  Blanca,  zay  again 
you  loaf  me." 

He  holds  my  hand  close  and  bends 
down  until  I  feel  his  hot  breath  on 
my  cheek. 

"  I  can't  say  again  what  I  never 
said  once." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


'  Ve  air  not  abord  du  San  Mig 
uel;  no  von  see,  no  von  hear.  I 
know  in  my  heart  you  loaf  me;  tell 
me  so  vonce !  Blanca !  "  The  music 
and  entreaty  in  the  deep  voice  thrill 
me  strangely.  "  Oh,  Blanca  darling, 
keess  me!  "  My  puny  resistance  is 
nothing  to  those  athlete's  arms;  he 
holds  me  close  one  instant  and  I, 
breathless,  struggle  to  free  my  hands, 
and  push  his  hot  cheek  away  from 
mine. 

"  How  dare  you;  you  are  no  gen 
tleman!  " 

"  No,  I  am  a  leaver,  Blanca,  not 
von  cold  Nordthern  zhentleman, 
who  haf  so  leedle  heart  it  can  be 
hush,  and  zo  dthin,  poor  blood  it 
nefer  rush  fire  at  a  voman's  touch. 


208 


The  Inca  Eye 

Blanca,  I  haf  been  still  for  days, 
vaiting  for  dthis  hour.  I  loaf  you, 
darling,  till  all  my  life  is  nodthing 
but  von  longing — I  loaf  you  till  I 
haf  no  conscience,  no  religion  but 
my  loaf.  No,  you  shall  not  spik 
now !  Blanca,  you  must  marry  me, 
here  in  Guatemala.  You  and  I  go 
not  back  to  San  Miguel  unless  you 
air  my  vife." 

"Baron!" 

"Hush!  Spik  not  so  loud,  and 
if  you  vill  not  make  me  mad  call  me 
not  Baron." 

An  awful  sense  of  loneliness 
chokes  me.  The  streets  of  that  bur 
ied  Aztec  city  are  not  more  silent 
than  this  one  in  Guatemala. 

"Guillermo,   listen!      I  have  no 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

friend  here  but  you;  you  must  take 
me  back  to  Mrs.  Steele.     Come !  " 

"  How  veil  you  know  men !  But 
not  me,  Blanca — not  a  Peruvian.  I 
know  it  ees  better  for  you,  as  veil  as 
for  myself,  dthat  you  marry  me. 
You  haf  nefer  been  so  gentle  and  so 
gude  as  since  I  hold  you  near  dthat 
baranca.  But  you  did  not  like  it! 
You  loaf  me,  but  you  air  like  a  vild 
deer;  you  air  so  easy  startle,  and  so 
hard  to  hold.  But  I  vill  be  zo  gude 
to  Blanca,  I  vill  make  her  glad  I  vas 
so  strong  not  to  let  her  haf  her  own 
way.  If  you  keess  me  and  zay  be 
fore  God  you  marry  me,  I  take  you 
back  to  Casa  47 — if  not,  Madame 
alone  to  San  Miguel." 


Steele  _ 
"  Baron 


de  Bach,  you're  talking 


"YOU  MUST  TAKE  ME  BACK!"  —  Page  210 


The  Inca  Eye 

crazy  nonsense.  You  don't  frighten 
me,  but  you  do  disgust  me.  You 
think  to  get  some  Peruvian  amuse 
ment  out  of  frightening  a  woman; 
well,  you  had  better  go  to  a  bull 
fight.  I  detest  you !  Let  me  go  or 
I'll  cry  out!" 

He  puts  one  hand  over  my  mouth 
and  holds  me  as  in  a  vise. 

"  Dthank  you,  Blanca !  You  gif 
me  courage.  I  haf  tell  you  how  a 
Peruvian  loaf;  I  vill  tell  you  how  he 
plan.  In  dthe  bay  off  Panama  ees 
my  yacht.  I  vill  keep  you  in  Guate 
mala  vhile  I  send  for  her,  and  dthen 
ve  go  to  Peru,  to  Ceylon — anyvhere 
you  like  but  America.  I  write 
Madame  Steele  you  air  my  vife,  and 
she  vill  soon  zee  ve  air  not  to  be  find; 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

she  vill  go  back  to  New  York.  It 
ees  no  use  dthat  you  cry  out,  no  von 
hear,  or  if  von  do,  you  spik  no 
Spanish,  and  I  haf  my  pistol  if  any 
interfere.  I  tell  you  so  much  dthat 
you  make  no  meestake.  Ve  air  not 
far  from  dthe  house  of  two  old 
friends  of  me.  *Dthey  vill  take  care 
off  you,  till  my  yacht  come;  you 
need  not  fear  me,  Senorita."  He 
loosens  his  grasp  for  an  instant,  and 
the  dark  street  seems  to  whirl.  I 
would  have  fallen  if  he  had  not 
caught  me.  I  hear,  as  one  dreaming, 
the  caressing  words  of  Spanish — I 
scarcely  feel  the  hot  kisses. 

"  I'm  all  alone,"  I  think,  looking 
down  the  silent  street  to  a  far-off 
lamp,  and  then  up  to  the  brilliant 


sky,  but  even  that  seems  strange,  for 
instead  of  my  old  friends  in  heaven, 
the  Southern  Cross  shines  cold  and 
far  above  me. 

"  Guillermo,"  I  say,  steadying 
myself  against  his  arm,  "  you  would 
make  a  terrible  mistake.  You  don't 
understand  Northern  women.  You 
say  you  love  me,  and  in  the  next 
breath  you  plan  to  ruin  my  whole 
life.  I  would  make  you  more  misery 
than  ever  a  man  endured,  and  I 
should  hate  you  bitterly  and  without 
end." 

"  It  ees  no  use  dthat  you  zay  such 
dthings." 

"  Guillermo,  don't  let  your  love 
be  such  a  curse  to  me." 

"  A  curse- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"  Yes.  If  any  other  man  had 
roughly  treated  me,  had  abused  my 
confidence,  and,  finding  me  defence 
less,  had  forgotten  what  all  brave 
men  owe  to  women — what  would 
you  do  to  such  a  man?  " 

The  Peruvian  puts  his  hand  before 
his  eyes. 

"  I  listen  not  to  anydthing  you 
zay." 

"  Yes,  you  will.  You  know  you 
would  half  kill  the  man  who  would 
strike  a  woman.  Some  half-mad 
man  has  done  worse  than  strike 
me,  Guillermo,  and  his  name  is  Guil- 
lermo  de  Bach.  You  are  so  strong, 
and  you  say  you  love  me;  will  you 
take  my  part  against  this  man?" 

The  moon  comes  out  of  a  cloud, 


The  Inca  Eye 

and  shows  me  a  white  face  above  my 
own,  drawn  tense  with  emotion. 
"  It  ees  all  settle,  Blanca ;  I  go  not 
back." 

"Oh,  God!  what  shall  I  do! 
What  kind  of  man  are  you?  You 
complain  that  my  countrymen  are 
cold  and  deliberate;  do  you  know 
why  we  love  them  ?  They  know  how 
to  keep  faith,  but  you  not  twenty- 
four  hours." 

4  Vhat  mean  you?"  His  voice 
is  husky  and  sounds  strange. 

'  You  promised  in  the  San  Miguel 
this  morning,  if  we  trusted  you 
enough  to  come  with  you  to  Guate 
mala,  you  would  see  that  the  San 
Miguel  did  not  sail  without  us. 
Guillermo !  " — with  an  inspiration  I 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

draw  the  white  face  down  to  mine — 
u  forgive  me  for  doubting  you;  you 
will  keep  your  word,"  and  I  kiss  him 
between  the  pain-contracted  brows. 

"  Oh,  Blanca,  Blanca,  you  vill 
kill  me  I" 

Is  it  a  tear  that  drops  on  my  face  ? 
I  put  my  arm  in  his  and  draw  him 
up  the  dark  street,  whispering  some 
incoherent  prayer. 

"  Blanca,  I  cannot!  I  am  not  a 
man  dthat  I  gif  you  up !  " 

We  have  turned  into  the  broad 
avenue  and  an  occasional  pedestrian 
passes  by.  The  Baron  seems  to  see 
nothing. 

"  You  are  not  a  man  when  you 
break  your  word.  Come,  Guil- 
lermo!" 


The  Inca  Eye 

We  are  back  at  last  before  the 
great  door;  I  lift  a  hand  trembling 
with  excitement  to  raise  the  iron 
knocker.  The  Baron  stops  me. 

"  I  am  von  fool,  Blanca!  Like 
your  countrymen,  I  let  you  rule. 
But  vhen  you  forget  all  else  off  me, 
remembair  you  haf  find  von  Peru 
vian  who  loaf  you  so  he  let  you  ruin 
hees  life — you  vill  nefer  see  an- 
odther  such  Peruvian  madman.  If 
I  haf  trouble  you,  I  haf  not  spare 
myself — keess  me  gude-night,  Blanca 
.  .  .  and  good-bye." 

A  moment  later  the  great  knocker 
had  fallen. 

Mrs.  Steele  and  Mrs.  Baldwin  are 
waiting  for  us  in  the  star-lit  patio. 
My  friend  is  evidently  displeased  at 


a 


.a 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

my  having  gone  out  without  consult 
ing  her.  I  feel  with  sharp  self-con 
demnation  that  in  agreeing  to  go  I 
was  not  only  rash,  but  seemed  even 
worse;  it  looked  as  if  I  had  courted 
a  tete-a-tete  alone  at  night  with  the 
Baron.  Ah,  why  can't  we  see  things 
in  the  present  as  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  see  them  when  the  time  is  past  and 
the  mistake  beyond  recall ! 

'  Well,  I  suppose  you've  ordered 
an  album  full  of  views,"  says  Mrs. 
Baldwin,  pleasantly  trying  to  cover 
up  the  awkwardness  of  our  return. 

"  No,"  I  answer,  taken  unawares, 
for  by  this  time  I  have  -quite  forgot 
ten  the  object  of  my  errand.  "  We 
found  the  gallery  farther  away  than 
I  expected,  and " 


The  Inca  Eye 

"  Vhen  ve  get  dthere  it  vas  close," 
says  the  Baron  in  a  calm,  well-con 
trolled  voice.  The  carriage  is  an 
nounced,  and  we  bid  Mrs.  Baldwin 
good-bye.  The  drive  home  is  very 
quiet,  and  we  say  good-night  to  the 
Baron  in  the  vestibule. 

Mrs.  Steele  oddly  enough  asks  me 
no  questions,  and  I  know  her  disap 
proval  must  be  strong.  I  think  little 
about  that,  however — I  am  going 
over  and  over  that  sharp  conflict  in 
the  dim,  deserted  street.  Did  it 
really  happen  or  did  I  dream  it! 
This  is  the  nineteenth  century  and  I 
am  a  plain  American  girl  to  whom 
nothing  remarkable  ever  happened 
before,  and  yet  it  was  true!  How 
was  I  to  blame  for  it — what  will 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


the  Baron  do — how  long  will  he 
remember?  My  last  waking  sensa 
tion  is  a  weary  surprise  to  find  my 
pillow  wet  with  tears. 

Mrs.  Steele  rouses  me  the  next 
morning,  holding  an  open  letter  in 
her  hand: 

"Blanche!  Blanche!  Wake  up! 
We've  overslept  and  lost  our  train. 
Here's  a  note  the  Baron's  just  sent 
up.  The  servant  has  neglected  to 
call  him  as  well,  and  he  thinks  we 
could  not  by  any  exertion  catch  the 
train  we  intended.  He  has  ascer 
tained  that  a  *  special '  leaving  Gua 
temala  two  hours  after  regular  train 
time  will  reach  San  Jose  an  hour  at 
least  before  the  steamer  can  possibly 
sail.  He  has  engaged  this  *  special ' 


The  Inca  Eye 

and  will  see  us  safely  on  board  at  ten 
o'clock.  He  begs  I  will  excuse  his 
absence  at  breakfast,  as  he  has  al 
ready  been  served,  and  remains  with 
assurances  of  his  profound  regard, 
my  obedient  servant,  Federico  Guil- 
lermo  de  Bach!  So  there's  no  time 
to  be  lost  !" 

My  friend  returns  to  her  room  to 
dress;  I  sit  bolt  upright  in  bed  star 
ing  straight  before  me  at  the  great 
shaft  of  yellow  sunlight  that  lies 
across  the  floor.  l  You  and  I  go 
not  back  to  San  Miguel  unless  you 
air  my  vife."  Was  it  a  curious 
dream  or  had  he  said  those  words? 

"Are  you  hurrying,  Blanche?" 
calls  Mrs.  Steele.  "  It  won't  do  to 
last  train  un 


mss 


you 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

cided  you  would  like  to  stay  in 
Guatemala." 

I  fly  out  of  bed  and  begin  to  rush 
into  my  clothes.  Mrs.  Steele's  voice 
has  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  it  that  re 
minds  me  she  may  still  be  dissatis 
fied  and  suspicious  about  last  night. 
"  She  mustn't  think  there's  been  any 
scene,"  I  admonish  myself;  "she 
would  say  it  was  entirely  my  fault, 
and  she  will  lose  all  confidence  in 
me.  No!  Mrs.  Steele  must  never 
know!" 

As  we  enter  the  breakfast  room 
an  officious  waiter  bows  and  scrapes, 
and  seats  us  at  a  table  giving  full 
view  of  the  sunny  patio.  We  have 
a  quiet  breakfast,  boasting  neither 
special  cheer  nor  appetite,  and  it  is 


The  Inca  Eye 

soon  finished.  We  are  beginning  to 
wonder  how  we  shall  manage  to  find 
our  train  if  the  Baron  does  not  come 
for  us,  when  the  doorway  is  dark 
ened  and  a  shadow  falls  across  the 
table. 

Without  looking  up,  I  am  sure  it 
is  he. 

"  Gude-morning,  Madame  Steele. 
Gude-morning,  Sefiorita.  I  hope  you 
haf  slept  well?" 

"  Good-morning,"  I  say,  observ 
ing  how  white  and  heavy-eyed  he 
looks  in  the  sunlight. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  we've  slept 
well,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  "  too  well, 
I'm  afraid." 

"  Oh,  no*,  belief  me,  dthis  extra 
train  ees  better." 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

'  You  look  ill,  Baron ;  how  did 
you  sleep?  " 

"  Dthank  you,  I  sleep  not  at  all 
till  yust  dthe  time  to  rise — dtherefore 
am  I  late.  If  your  dthings  air  ready 
ve  vill  start  at  once."  He  sends  a 
servant  upstairs  after  our  various 
purchases  and  wraps,  etc.,  and  we 
find  them  all  stowed  in  the  carriage 
waiting  at  the  entrance,  when  we 
come  down  a  few  minutes  later.  The 
Baron  stands  by  the  landau,  waiting 
to  help  us  in.  On  our  drive  to  the 
station  he  points  out  this  and  that 
bit  of  interest,  quite  in  his  usual 
way. 

"  You  zee  dthat,  Madame  ?  "  He 
points  to  a  circular  roof  supported  on 
stone  pillars  sheltering  water-tanks 


The  Inca  Eye 

and  primitive  laundry  essentials 
"  Dthat  ees  a  *  pila,'  a  place  vhere 
dthe  vomans  vash  dthe  garments." 
It  is  surrounded  by  buxom  young 
girls  with  dripping  linen  in  their 
hands  which  they  seemed  to  be  beat 
ing  on  stone  slabs.  "  Dthat  tree 
dthat  grow  beside  ees  palma  cristi." 

"  Why,  it's  only  what  we  call  the 
castor-bean,  only  this  is  larger,"  I 
venture  to  say. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear!  c  A  palma 
cristi  by  the  pila  '  is  the  Baron's  way 
of  saying  a  castor-oil  bean  by  the 
wash-house." 

My  laugh  is  a  little  forced,  I'm 
afraid,  and  the  Baron  seems  not  to 
have  heard. 

"  What    is    growing    inside    that 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

fence?"  I  ask,  with  a  stern  deter 
mination  to  keep  up  appearances. 

"  A  kind  off  cactus,"  says  the 
Baron,  "  vhat  cochineal  bugs  lif  on 
- — dthey — how  you  say  it  ? — *  raise ' 
much  cochineal  bugs  in  Guatemala." 

The  three  volcanoes  loom  up 
mightily.  The  smoke  is  denser  and 
darker  to-day,  the  "  spirits  "  of  Air, 
Fire  and  Water  look  down  with 
menacing  aspect  on  the  white  city  in 
the  plain. 

"  You  must  notice  after  you  leaf 
Acajulta  dthe  volcano  *  Yzalco  ' ;  it 
ees  acteef,  as  you  say;  it  ees  all  fire 
by  dthe  dark  of  dthe  night.  And  in 
dthose  bay  off  La  Libertad  and 
Puenta  Arenas  you  must  look  at 


Bancroft  Library 


dthose  devil-feesh — ach  schrecklich; 
dthey  haf  terrible  great  vings  vhat 
dthey  wrap  around  vhat  dthey  eat." 
1  You  speak  almost  as  if  you 
would  not  be  there  to  point  them 
out  on  the  spot,"  says  Mrs.  Steele, 
smiling  as  we  pass  the  Trocadero 
and  draw  up  at  the  station. 

"  Qvite  right !  I  am  advise  by  a 
friend  to  stay  and  zee  dthe  Dthurs- 
day  bull-fight — I  dthink  I  must." 

He  helps  us  out  of  the  carriage 
without  noticing  my  unspoken 
amazement  or  Mrs.  Steele's  incredu 
lous,  "  What  nonsense." 

"  I  vill  put  you  in  dthe  train  and 
then  come  back  to  zee  your  dthings 
come."  He  leads  the  way  to  the 
"  special "  standing  with  snorting 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

engine  on  the  furthest  track.  He 
seats  us  and  is  gone  again.  A  serv 
ant  brings  in  our  effects  and  the 
Baron  follows. 

"  Madame,"  he  says,  dropping 
into  the  seat  behind  Mrs.  Steele,  "  I 
haf  arrange  to  haf  dthis  man  zee 
you  to  the  ship — he  spik  leedle  Eng 
lish  and  I  am  told  gude  off  him 
as  sairvant.  I  haf  give  him  all  di 
rection — he  vill  take  gude  care 
off  you  and  you  vill  reach  San 
Miguel  in  gude  time,  as  I  prom- 
eese." 

"  But  when  are  you  coming?  "  I 
say. 

"  I  come  not  back  to  San  Miguel." 
He  speaks  to  Mrs.  Steele  and  does 
not  meet  my  look.  "  I  haf  telegraph 


The  Inca  Eye 


I  vill 


to  Panama   for  my  yacht, 
vait  here  till  she  come." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,  Baron; 
this  is  very  sudden,  isn't  it?  "  Mrs. 
Steele  looks  greatly  astonished. 

"Not  so  fery!  Dthis  train  go 
soon;  I  must  zay  gude-bye.  Here 
ees  dthe  leedle  carve  spoon  from 
Escuintla  you  zay  you  like.  I  haf 
had  much  plaisir  to  know  you, 
Madame.  Gude-bye!"  He  holds 
out  his  shapely  white  hand  and  Mrs. 
Steele  takes  it  warmly. 

"  Indeed,  Baron,  I'm  quite  breath 
less  with  surprise,  and  really  very 
sorry  to  lose  you.  Blanche  and  I 
will  miss  you  sorely.  If  you  ever 
come  to  New  York  you  know  where 
to  find  me  and  a  warm  welcome 


B 


Under  the  S  out  Kern  Cross 

Our  kindest  thoughts  will  follow 
you.  Thank  you  for  the  spoon,  al 
though  at  any  other  time  I  might 
hesitate  to  become  the  receiver  of 
stolen  goods.  Good-bye !  " 

"  Gude-bye,  Madame — gude-bye, 
Sefiorita."  He  holds  my  hand  the 
briefest  moment,  and  I  feel  a  big 
lump  come  in  my  throat  at  the  sight 
of  his  face.  My  voice  wavers  a  little 
as  I  say: 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  say  good-bye  to 
you 

"  Dthank  you,  Sefiorita.  I  haf 
somedthing  off  yours  I  must  not  for 
get."  He  puts  a  hand  in  his  breast 
pocket  and  brings  out  the  gold- 
crested  letter-book.  He  takes  from 
it  a  tiny  roll  of  cigarette  paper. 


'  Vidth  all  my  boast  I  haf  not  suc 
ceed  to  *  keep  my  pearl ' ;  it  ees  yours, 
Senorita." 

"  No,  Baron "  I  begin,  with 

warm  protest. 

"  If  you  vant  me  to  haf  it,  Se 
norita,  write  me  and  I  vill  come  from 
dthe  end  of  dthe  vorld  to  get  it. 
But  you  vill  not,  zo  put  dthis  Inca 
eye  beside  it.  Dthey  zay  in  my 
country  it  bring  gude  luck.  But  it 
look  like  dthat  sun  ve  haf  ofer  our 
heads  in  Acapulco  Bay,  dthink  you 
not  zo,  Madame?  " 

He  shows  her  the  curious  jewel, 
like  opaque  amber  sprinkled  with 
gold  dust. 

"It  is  very  curious  and  interest- 
ing,"  says  Mrs.  Steele. 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 

"Indeed  it  is,"  I  agree;  "  thank 
you  very  much."  But  I  scarcely  see 
the  Inca  eye;  I  am  looking  into  his 
and  trying  to  read  his  face. 

"  Zo,  Senorita,  dthough  you  go 
far  nordthvard  dthe  Inca's  eye  from 
Peru  ees  still  upon  you;  I  haf  send 
him  to  take  care  off  ...  dthe 
pearl.  Gude-bye — Gude-bye,  Ma 
dame!" 

The  tall  figure  turns  away,  and  in 
a  moment  is  gone. 

"  Why,  Blanche,  what  is  the  mat 
ter?  "  Mrs.  Steele's  voice  is  sharp 
with  concern.  I  try  to  smile  and 
instinctively  my  hand  goes  to  my 
tightened  throat.  "  My  poor  child, 
do  you  care?  " 

"  How  absurd!  "  I  say,  with  what 


scorn  I  can  command.    "  Care  about 
what,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Senorita !  "  The  handsome  face 
of  the  Peruvian  looks  in  at  an  open 
window  near  the  far  end  of  the  car. 
A  bell  rings,  the  conductor  shouts 
some  warning  in  Spanish.  In  the  din 
I  run  to  the  window  and  the  Baron 
holds  up  a  bunch  of  roses.  "  Dthink 
dthe  best  you  can  of  me,  Blanca;  I 
vill  loaf  you  all  my  life." 

The  look  of  suffering  in  the  won 
derful  dark  eyes  brings  the  lump 
again  to  my  throat.  I  take  the  roses 
and  I  know  my  eyes  are  misty. 

*  Thank  you,  Guillermo ;  it  won't 
be  hard  to   think   good   things  of 


you. 


I  feel  a  warning  hand  on  my  shoul- 


Under  the  Southern  Cross 


der.    It  is  Mrs.  Steele,  and  the  touch 
recalls  all  my  resolutions. 

I  shall  always  remember.  .  .  . 
Good-bye!" 

The  train  moves  off,  the  Baron 
steps  back  with  that  same  look  in  his 
face,  and  lifts  his  hat.  His  cour 
tesy  shows  at  the  last  some  flaw,  for, 
although  Mrs.  Steele  is  there,  his 
lips  and  eyes  say  only: 

"Gude-bye,  Blanca!" 


B 


